Ar Lath'an
by MissAlezae
Summary: Ar Lath'an is a story is based off of Bioware's Dragon Age II, but its events may stray from the videogame's canon plot. Story is romantic in nature, but focuses on other plot points as well. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Merrill wished the men would hurry up.

She could see them straining beneath their burden, and she twinged with guilt every time they groaned or cursed. But still… she wanted to get inside.

She was lucky that the alienage was so quiet this morning.

A faint wind stirred the highest leaves of the _vhenadahl,_ but other than that there was almost no movement in the plaza. The mirror was wrapped in thick canvas. It shouldn't have draw much attention on its own, but she knew that fewer eyes watching was always a blessing.

Still, the quiet unnerved her. It made the men's movements seem louder, and their mission all the more clandestine.

The sound of old wood snagging on the uneven stones of the courtyard snapped Merrill to attention.

"Careful!" she trilled, whirling to face the men. "Oh, please be careful! That's very fragile!"

"Give it a rest, Merrill!" The larger of the two snapped. "We're lifting it best we can."

"Yeah," the second agreed. "This thing weighs more than an oxman. You should've hired two of _them_!"

Not a chance. These two elves didn't know what it was they carried, and the mirror's aura didn't seem to bother them too badly. Qunari would have sensed the magic and been suspicious. More likely than not, none of them would've been wiling to touch it, much less unload it from the Ferelden ships and lug it all the way to her hovel at the back end of Kirkwall.

"I know you're doing your best," she said slowly, "but if you could maybe just not drop it."

One of the men spat beside his shoe, and heaved the massive package upwards and forwards, dragging the wood frame along in a way that seemed intentional.

Merrill began to protest again, but then bit her tongue. It couldn't get that much _more_ broken, she supposed.

…

The two men barreled in without pause when she finally opened the door to her tiny shack. She followed quickly, wondering where they'd gained this newfound energy.

"I was thinking it could go over here," she told them, pointing to a corner near the book-laden table at the center of her main room.

Neither of the men responded, and she glanced around, realizing they were already pushing their way into the small room off the side that served as her sleeping area. "Wait!" she cried.

Ignoring her, the elves dumped the load unceremoniously next to her bed. The room was tiny and, with the addition of the massive wrapped parcel, could hardly fit the three of them standing. Merrill rang her hands together, wondering if she should say something. The two helpers were already straightening, and unrolling their shoulders. The big one looked a little smug.

She chewed the inside of her cheek and surveyed the scene one more time. The top of the mirror stood upright against the wall, and it wasn't _so_ close to the bed that she would be bothered. "I guess that's fine," she said with a sigh.

"Payment?" was the brute's response. He held out a hand.

Right. Merrill nodded, and carefully withdrew the two promised sovereigns from the pouch at her waist.

That was that then, she thought as she handed the gold pieces over. The majority of the money Hawke had left her was now gone. She'd have to start looking for jobs on her own if Bartrand's expedition stayed too much longer underground.

She tried to put on a bright smile. "Thank you so much for your help," she began. "I could never have done that… alone?"

The men edged around her, not acknowledging her gratitude, or meeting her eyes.

"Yeah, whatever," one of them mumbled from the living room.

The other added, "Crazy witch," before the front door could slam behind them.

Merrill's smile fell. Tears prickled for a moment behind her eyes before she set her jaw and shook them away. None of that now, she thought. What those silly city elves thought of her was unimportant. She had larger concerns than the size of their shallow minds.

"They must have other places they need to be," she said aloud, nodding firmly. Satisfied with this explanation, she returned her attention to the package they'd delivered for her. The giant bundle stood so tall that it brushed the ceiling of the compact room. The canvas looked a little jostled from the trip across the Waking Sea, but she wouldn't be able to tell if any significant damage had been done until she removed the covering.

Almost reverent, she pulled a small blade from her belt and set to cutting the rope that held the parcel bound. She let the bindings fall around her feet. She'd clean them up later.

She tucked the knife away again and began to carefully pull the canvas from the object underneath. Despite the heaviness of the fabric, it slipped from the mirror almost like a sheet, and Merrill felt a tingle thrill up her spine.

Of course the Eluvian wouldn't want to be covered. It was a silly thought—the mirror had no mind of it's own—but she acknowledged it, feeling playful. The mirror had traveled wonderfully.

The large crack that ran through the middle of the black glass had been there since the incident in the Brecilian woods. Merrill was relieved to note that it had not deepened or fractured further during the voyage. And, despite her delivery men's carelessness, the mirror's frame looked no worse for wear either.

Oblivious to the world, Merrill trailed her fingertips along the ancient carvings along the mirror's edge. Oh, what she would give to know what the hieroglyphs meant!

"Interesting taste," said a languid voice behind her.

Merrill jumped, spinning to face the intruder while attempting to shield the massive mirror from view. Her thin arms aided her efforts in no way.

"Isabela!" she choked. "I didn't hear you come in!"

The pirate was lounging against the doorframe. She smirked at Merrill's obvious discomfort and her attempts to be discreet, crossing her arms beneath her ample chest. Merrill gulped.

"You left your door unlocked, kitten." Isabela teased. "Just about anyone could've walked in off the street."

Merrill deflated. "Oh."

Isabela straightened, strolling further into the room, her amber eyes fixed on the Eluvian. Merrill wondered if there was anything she could say to avoid what was certain to turn into a stream of awkward questions.

"Is this a mirror then?" the pirate asked her. She stopped to stand by Merrill's shoulder, twisting her body back and forth as she attempted to see her form.

"It's not a very good mirror, is it?" Isabela grumbled. "Why can't I see myself?"

Without knowing it, Isabela had stumbled on the crux of Merrill's own problem. The pirate's observation was right: the black glass showed no reflection whatsoever. Only a foreboding sort of mist if you stared at it too long. Merrill didn't want Isabela to do that.

She cleared her throat. "Well, it's not a mirror, exactly," she tried to explain. "I mean, it is kind of, but it's broken. I—"

Isabela waved a hand, bored. "A broken mirror hardly seems worth keeping."

Merrill frowned, and Isabela must have seen it because she added, "But I guess if it's special to you."

"Well, it is…" Merrill mumbled. "You see—"

"Why don't we go get ourselves a drink?" Isabela said, interrupting her again. Leave it to Isabela to see something strange and suspicious, and not care at all. Merrill found herself being pulled under one of the pirate's tanned arms, all ready to be led away.

"Wait? What?" she stammered, pulling back. "Isabela, the sun _just_ rose!"

One of Isabela's eyebrows twitched. "And?"

"A-and…" Merrill stammered, "I'm hardly the company you usually seek out for this sort of thing."

Isabela's eyes dropped to the ground, and Merrill wondered if she'd said something rude. The pirate was so open about her affairs that sometimes it was hard to tell what might cross a line.

Then Isabela sighed heavily, her head lolling to the side. "Things are so boring around here without Hawke," she said. "I'm tired of drinking with pigs."

She looked Merrill dead in the eyes, and her lips curved into a dangerous smirk. "A woman needs a _man_ to shiver her timbers, you understand?" she said with a wink.

Merrill felt her face go hot. "I-I don't," she stammered, "Um…"

Before Isabela could go further there was a knock at the door in the front room. Merrill was so relieved she could have fainted on the spot.

"Hello!" she cried. "Come in!"

"Merrill?" called a familiar voice.

Aveline!

Merrill slipped past Isabela into the main area of the shack, unable to contain her happiness at the chance interruption. The guard captain greeted her smile with a grimace. "You shouldn't leave you're door open, Merrill. It's dangerous—oh."

Aveline's eyes had locked on something over her shoulder, and Merrill turned to see that Isabela had followed her out of the bedroom.

"You're here," Aveline muttered. Her voice sounded tight.

Isabela frowned at the reaction. "If it bothers you, feel free to leave."

"I suppose it saves me the effort of having to track you down," Aveline said softly. She didn't seem to have heard the pirate's chastising remark. Merrill looked closer at the redhead and realized that her friend's face looked drained. She seemed ill, or distracted. Something was definitely off.

"Aveline…" Merrill asked, suddenly timid. "Is something wrong?"

The guard captain's green eyes lighted on Merrill's face, and the elf knew she'd been right to ask.

"Hawke's party has returned from the Deep Roads," Aveline told them.

Isabela cheered. "What?! That's excellent news!"

It was, and Merrill understood the excitement Isabela showed. She did not understand why Aveline's expression had stayed so dark, nor why she grabbed the pirate's arm as she tried to head outdoors.

"Wait, Isabella," Aveline said. "I don't think you should go,"

Isabela's lip curled in disgust, and she tried to tear her arm free. The other woman held it firm.

"I don't happen to care what _you_ think," Isabela hissed, not ceasing her fight. "Get your hands off me."

"Just listen for once!" Aveline snapped.

"Has something bad happened?" Merrill cut in. She could hardly bear to think it, but there was no other reason for Aveline to be so upset. The battle-hardened woman was usually so stoic and composed. It was frightening to imagine what could have rattled her.

Isabela grew still, and Aveline let her arm fall. "It's Carver," the guard captain said. Her voice had that tight tone to it again. Merrill realized with no small bit of shock that the redhead was actually on the verge of tears. "He didn't come back with them."

The pit of Merrill's stomach dropped. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Why?"

Aveline put a hand over her eyes. "Varric says Bartrand betrayed them. That's why they were gone so much longer than we expected. Bartrand left them all trapped underground to die."

Merrill's heartbeat was rapidly rising. "What?"

"Carver was exposed to the Darkspawn taint while they were searching for another way to get to the surface," Aveline continued, her voice breaking. "Just like Wesley…. I guess there was a terrible fight, and he must have touched them, or their blood… I don't know."

"Get to the point!" Isabela snapped. Merrill heard the tremor in her friend's words. They were all scared.

"Varric said that Anders tried to lead them to a Grey Warden outpost. Apparently he sensed a camp not far out of the way, and he thought the Wardens might have a way to save Carver, but… they didn't make it in time."

Merrill gasped. "H-how terrible! First Bethany, and now this… How is Hawke?"

"Not well," Aveline groaned. She opened her eyes again and prepared to say something more, but Isabela pushed past her, darting out into the street.

"No, Isabela!" Aveline cried after her. "Wait!"

But the pirate did not stop, and was already halfway up the steps to Kirkwell proper before they could follow. Aveline sighed heavily, massaging her temples. "Stubborn whore…."

Merrill gingerly laid a hand on the guard captain's arm. "Maybe it's for the best," she said. "Out of all of us, she'll probably be the most able to put Hawke back into sorts."

Aveline shook her head. "I don't think so. Not this time."

"What do you mean?" Merrill asked, confused.

Aveline looked back towards the steps where Isabela had disappeared. Her expression was so melancholy that Merrill thought her heart might break. She clasped her hands to her chest, feeling useless.

"I mean that Hawke is not the same person who went into the Deep Roads," the guard captain told her. "Hawke's changed."


	2. Chapter 2

The Hawkes' family home was not far from the elven alienage. Both were crammed in the back half of the city, west of the long stair that ran down to the docks. With the streets as empty as they were, Isabela was able to cover the distance in a matter of minutes.

A grey-faced Gamlen let her in the front door. He didn't say a word, and he hardly even paused to stare at her tits. Instead he turned back to his sister, who was collapsed at the small kitchen table, her face buried in her hands. Isabela paused, watching Hawke's mother tremble with tears, and had a moment of panic. Perhaps she should have waited. Maybe Aveline was right, and she was here too soon.

The thought grated her and she pushed it away. No, Hawke would want to see her. He would want her to comfort him, now more than ever.

"The boy's in the back room," Gamlen grunted, not looking at her.

"Thank you," she said.

He scoffed. "Good bloody luck."

Isabela ignored him, and pushed the door open just wide enough for her to slip through. She shut the door quietly before turning to look for her lover.

Hawke lay on the bottom bunk of what had been his and his brother's lofted beds. He lay on his back, his arms over his head. He was bare-chested, so she could see the lithe muscle of his torso, and also all of the bandages that wrapped various parts of his upper half.

That didn't make sense, she thought. Even if he'd been too wounded to perform the spells himself, Anders should have been able to heal him.

She took a deep breath to calm her apprehension. There had to be a reason. She would find it; she just needed to break this intense silence first.

Hawke had not moved in the slightest when she'd opened the door. He still wasn't looking at her, and had not uttered a single word.

Isabela sighed again, and tried to get him to acknowledge her. "You've looked better," she told him quietly.

Hawke took so long to respond that she wondered if he was actually sleeping. "I said—" she began.

"Go away."

Isabela paused. That was definitely Hawke's voice, but it was deeper, more serious, than she had ever heard it before. "Aveline told me what happened in the Deep Roads," Isabela tried again, taking another few steps closer. "Maybe I can… help…."

She trailed off. Hawke had lowered his arm as she drew near, turning his golden eyes to face her. Or… eye. One of his beautiful eyes glowed in the room's candlelight, but the other was swathed in bandages. They covered the whole right side of his head.

"I don't need help," he said, his tone cold.

Not fully listening, she sat next to him, and stretched out a hand to touch the damaged part of his face. "Did you lose your eye?" she wondered. The thought chilled her. There were few things in the world she'd miss more than the thrill of his strange gaze.

He caught her hand before she could touch him, and his grip was not at all kind. He pushed her hand away, and sat up, making to swing both legs onto the floor.

"What is this?" Isabela asked, stunned. "Why are you injured?"

"You just said Aveline told you what happened," Hawke snapped, not looking at her.

"She did, but I want to hear it from you." Isabela reached for his face again, determined to make him show her his injury. The moment her fingertips reached his face, his hand shot up, slapping her away. He twisted like a cat, and his other hand caught her round the throat, pushing her hard, down onto the bed.

Isabela gagged, her fingers tearing at the strength of his grip. Her body convulsed, and tears formed at the corners of her eyes. "W'-what are you doing?" she choked.

He said nothing. His single yellow eye watched her struggle, but his shadowed face showed no emotion at all. This wasn't him playing some sort of game. It wasn't even him being rough; it was like he actually wanted to kill her.

"S-stop!" she wailed.

He released her instantly, standing as she hacked and gasped to regain her breath. "I told you to leave." he reminded her. He crossed the room, and pulled a shirt from the trundle in the corner of the room.

"Have you lost your mind?" Isabela wheezed, holding her throat tenderly. "I understand that you're mourning your brother, but that—"

"You understand nothing!" Hawke bellowed. He whirled to face her, his shirt still balled in his fist. She cowered away from his hands, but her eyes stayed locked on his face.

She'd only seen it for a moment, but she was certain that when his temper had flared, she'd seen the eye socket beneath his bandage glow. "Hawke," she hissed. "What have you done?"

He frowned, and turned back to the wall. She watched him slip the shirt over his head. He didn't speak, and she rose to her feet, her own temper flashing up. She crossed the room in two quick strides, and grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her.

"You're like Anders now, is that it?" she demanded. "Did you make a deal with some demon?"

The man regarded her coolly. His visible eye glittered in the firelight, but he still didn't open his mouth.

"Is that why you're acting like this?" she pressed. "Talk to me, Hawke."

His gaze dropped to look at her hand, which was still holding his arm.

"Before we went underground," he said finally, "I thought I might be in love with you."

Her heart skipped a beat.

She'd known. He'd tried to be casual and lighthearted in their trysts, but she'd been able to tell. Of course she had; she thought she might be in love with him too. If someone like her were capable of such a thing.

Isabela panted out a laugh. She released his arm, and brought both hands to softly cup his cheeks. They weren't as smooth as they had been, dusted now in rough stubble the same ebony color as his hair. It was insensitive of her to think so, but the disheveled look suited him. Leaning her body closer into his chest, she teased, "You say it like that's changed."

She had to stand on her toes to bring her lips to his.

For a moment he let his mouth move with hers, and then she felt his posture stiffen beneath her hands. Hawke caught her wrists, and pushed her firmly away.

"Hawke?" she said, stumbling backwards.

He had already turned away again, this time reaching into his trundle for a large leather-bound book. "I see nothing in you now," he said, his voice matter of fact. "Nothing but lies."

"L-lies?" she stammered, "What are you talking about?"

He walked back over to his bed, and flopped down, one long leg hanging down onto the floor. Licking his thumb, he flipped the book open and began to read. "I don't want to look at you," he said.

Isabela's mouth worked, flabbergast. There was no way he meant that. There was no way he would be so cold. No way he could be so disinterested. And whatever secrets she maintained, she had never lied to him! Not directly anyway.

"I don't understand—" she started.

He cut her off. "Get out."

Her hand shook as she rested it on the door. He couldn't be thinking clearly, she told herself. He'd call her name in a moment and take it all back.

But several long seconds passed, and Hawke said nothing at all, totally engrossed by the pages of his tome.

Isabela threw the door open. She dashed across the main room, and out into the Lowtown alley before Gamlen or Leandra could see her tears.


	3. Chapter 3

Merrill didn't know why she'd decided to go to the Hanged Man. It was loud, rowdy, and somehow still surprisingly dreary without Isabela there.

She cast a limp glance across the room towards the bar. Some drunk old man filled the stool Isabela had once frequented. He looked a bit like Hawke's uncle actually, now that she thought about it.

Her thoughts turned to Hawke and she sighed heavily, staring hard at the almost full glass she still gripped with both hands. There was a scraping of wood as someone sat down in the seat across from her. She looked up into a face full of chest hair.

"What'sa matter, Daisy?" Varric asked her. The dwarf leaned onto the table, his clean-shaven cheek resting against his fist. "That mug done something to hurt your feelings?"

"H-hello, Varric," she said, somewhat surprised to see him. "No, the mug's been very good for a mug."

He smirked at her, and she reassessed her answer. "Although, I suppose, you were just being sarcastic…. Of course a mug would never…." She trailed off, leaving the unfinished thought to hang in the air between them.

"Long day?" Varric chuckled.

She looked down again. "Several long days," she admitted. "Long weeks. Long months."

"Want to talk about it?"

She blushed. "Oh, I don't know. Just lonely I guess. Seems like there's nobody around much these days."

Varric watched her as she talked, his eyes sympathetic. The attention was considerate, and she felt some of her depression ease away.

"I mean, Aveline's busy with the guard," she continued. "Anders never wants to talk about anything besides evil Templars. Fenris… well, Fenris doesn't like me. Carver's gone. I haven't seen Isabela since the day you all returned from the Deep Roads, and I'm worried about Hawke."

Varric's kind smile twisted into something wry. "You're worried about Hawke?" he snorted. "With all that treasure we were able to get to the surface? Haven't you heard how well he's doing for himself?"

"Yes…" she confessed, "but I also hear that he doesn't speak with anyone. It's been ages since I've seen him. He's just locked up in that big house. And if Isabela's gone… he's all alone."

Varric scratched the backed of his head. "I think he prefers it that way." The dwarf sounded a little bitter to her ears. "And remember, he still has his mother."

Merrill's grip tightened around her cup, her knuckles turning white. "But the last time I saw Leandra…" she murmured.

The dwarf sighed, "Well… I'll admit you have me on that." He took a pensive swig of his own drink, and then said, "But I don't know that Hawke's been as holed up as you think."

She looked at him with wide eyes. "What do you mean? He's adventuring again?"

Varric scanned the tables close to their corner, making sure that nobody untoward was listening in. "I'm not sure it's 'adventuring' necessarily. But I do hear that he's been moving around, roaming the city after dark. Maker knows why."

"Is he working with Anders?"

"Not that I can tell," Varric shrugged.

Merrill nibbled the inside of her cheek. What could Hawke be up to? And why wouldn't he ask his old friends to tag along?

"I've also heard," Varric continued, "from higher up that chain, that he's had a summons from the Arishok. He's been taking his sweet time in answering it."

"The Arishok!?" Merrill yelped, nearly spilling her drink. Varric shushed her, chuckling under his breath.

"Why don't'cha tell the whole neighborhood?" he ribbed.

Merrill made sure to whisper her hurried response. "But the _Arishok_ , Varric? What's Hawke doing, fooling around with the likes of him?"

Varric put his hands up in a gesture of innocence. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Merrill had only glimpsed the Qunari general in passing, but the man's imposing presence had left a permanent mark. He did not seem like the type to brook dallying or disrespect. She feared the altercation that was like to happen if Hawke continued to ignore the Arishok's request.

"Do you think Hawke will be needing our help soon?" she found herself asking.

Varric examined his hands while he answered. His voice sounded grim. "Who knows," he muttered. "For my part, I almost hope not. I hate to admit it, but ever since the Deep Roads, he's made my skin crawl."

She caught his eye, and smiled knowingly. "Oh but, Varric, he always got on your last nerve."

Varric chuckled. "Sure. I thought he had an ego the size of Orzammar, and the bloodlust to match an ogre." The dwarf took another large gulp of ale, and when he put the mug down his expression had clouded over. "But after what happened underground…. I don't know. He's just too strong. And too angry."

"He lost his brother," Merrill reminded him.

"I lost mine too," the dwarf said quietly. "But Hawke's the one who nearly killed the rest of us as a consequence."

Merrill hesitated. She hadn't meant to be insensitive about Bartrand's betrayal. But she also hadn't heard this part of the story. "Hawke can't have been that bad," she coaxed.

Varric finished his drink, and stood up from the table. His eyes locked with hers as he said, "You weren't there, Daisy. You didn't see him."

Merrill watched the dwarf's shoulders as he retreated down the hallway towards his rooms at the back of the inn. Varric was a dear friend, and a caring soul, but he did have quite a knack for flourishes of the dramatic.

There was no way Hawke could've been as bad Varric was making him out to be.

And no matter what the dwarf said, she knew he would be first in line with the rest of them if Hawke ever did come to call.

She, for one, hoped that Hawke _would_ round up the old gang soon. She missed the trouble that Hawke used to get them into. He always found them treasure. And excitement. Gods only knew how she could use some of that. It wasn't that completing random chores for the neighbors that would speak to her wasn't fun…. She was just desperate for anything that might take her mind off how little progress she'd been making with the Eluvian.

A nervous sort of energy began to thrum in her bones. She choked down a large gulp of honeyed mead, and determined to be as patient as she could.


	4. Chapter 4

It turned out that being patient was extremely hard.

Hawke did not come to her door that day, or the next, and so the one after that Merrill decided to track him down herself.

She'd been up to Hightown to see the old Amell estate only once, when Hawke and his mother had first reclaimed it. The home was an exquisite building, right in the center of the square. It was covered in ivy, and had large windows of painted glass. On that afternoon, the sunlight had glinted off the panes, casting rainbows onto the cobbled road below.

Now in the nighttime, the residence was still grand, but there was an eerie sort of ambiance in the way that candlelight reflected from inside.

Merrill rubbed her hands together, trying to get feeling to come back into her fingertips as she waited in the alley across the street. She'd come to call earlier in the day, but Bodhan had sent her home, saying, "The young master is not here, and I'm sorry, I don't know when he'll be back."

She'd had the suspicion then that he'd been lying, but now—six hours later and no Hawke in sight—she was beginning to feel a bit foolish.

"Maybe he really isn't home," she murmured under her breath. How silly she was, wasting the better half of a day, sitting on a box. Merrill picked her staff up off the ground, and was just slinging it to her back as the low whine of door hinges reached her ears.

She gasped in excitement before she could contain it, and then threw her hands tightly over her mouth. She hugged herself as close to the stone wall of the alleyway as she could, praying to Mythal that she had not been seen.

Hardly daring to breathe, she peered around the building's edge.

The figure in the doorway of the estate had frozen at the sound of her voice. He was stock still now, listening, it seemed, for any other irregular noises.

Merrill stayed as still as he was, elated beyond words to be seeing the face of a friend who'd been tucked away for the majority of three, very long, years.

Hawke wore his hood pulled up, but she could still see the fire of his good eye as it darted across the shadows. Over the damaged right one he wore a swath of black leather that looked like it had been specially fitted to his face. He'd let his stubble fill out into a short beard, and she was embarrassed to admit how well it accented the sharp lines of his jaw.

Hawke watched the night a moment longer before starting swiftly down the street opposite her. She followed as close behind him as she dared. She had never been particularly graceful for an elf but, when the gods were kind, she could be light on her feet.

If Hawke heard her, he did not turn around.

She hesitated when the man started to go up the marble staircase into the ritziest part of the city. The affluence of the area made her feel a jarring sense of alienation, and she wondered for a moment if it might not be better to turn back. Fenris had claimed one of these fancy manors, she knew, but getting caught in this part of Hightown as an elven _apostate_ would cause huge problems for her.

Hawke did not slow at the top of the stair, and he did not turn in the direction of Fenris' home. Curiosity won out, and Merrill raced to follow him, hoping that she hadn't delayed too long.

The upper streets were quiet as a grave when she reached them, and she circled the plaza, wringing her hands. Where could Hawke possibly have gone?

She was seconds from giving up, but then she heard the muffled tinkling of breaking glass. Whipping about, she noticed that one of the manor doors near her had been left ajar. Inside, she could just barely make out a man's voice. He sounded to be in some sort of distress.

Merrill darted through the doorway, following the voice across the grand foyer to the base of a giant curving stair. A vase had been toppled off one of the handrail pillars. It lay in a shattered pile on the floor.

She took the steps two at a time. Adrenaline coursed through her. She knew she was getting close.

She made to grab her staff and, in her moment of distraction, slammed headlong into a human girl with hay colored hair. They were both sent sprawling.

"I'm so sorry—" Merrill tried to say, collecting her breath.

But the girl didn't seem to hear her. She was crying and muttering to herself. She staggered back to her feet, and continued along her way out of the mansion without granting the elf so much as a glance.

Concerned, Merrill crawled back to her feet and turned down the corridor in the direction that the girl had come. The last door on the end of the hall was open, and she could hear two male voices inside.

The loud, frantic one that she had heard yelling from outside sounded like he might be Orlesian… or perhaps Antivan… Sometimes she couldn't quite tell the accents apart.

The other voice was much deeper, calmer, and unmistakable. It belonged to Hawke.

Merrill peered into the room, not certain yet if she wanted to be seen.

The area was a marvelous bedroom, with floor to ceiling windows on the outer wall that had been thrown open, revealing a balcony that looked over the city.

The near side of the room was devoted to a large, oak writing desk. It was as covered in nearly as many books and papers as her table at home. On the far side of the room there was a massive, ornate, four-post bed. It had a velvet canopy.

Hawke stood before the bed, his back facing the doorway where she hid. At his feet was a human noble with greasy blond hair, and a rising bruise on his cheek. If Merrill didn't know better, it might have appeared that the stranger was begging for his life.

"Serah," the man was saying, "You have me in ze wrong. I am not ze one. I _swear_ to you. I am looking for 'im too!"

"You're lying," Hawke responded after a moment. Merrill shivered. His voice was astonishingly cold.

The man on the ground recoiled, his face twisted in fear. "I'm not! Zese murderz are not done by my hand—"

"You are involved," Hawke insisted, cutting him off. He readied the long bladed end of his staff, and Merrill stared, mesmerized, wondering what in the name of Elgar'nan Hawke intended to do.

Without warning the begging man's face changed. He went one moment from scared and innocent, to angry and filled with spite. "No!" he screamed, his face contorting with rage. "I 'ave come too far! Zis will not end here!"

Merrill felt the air around her begin to distort as the stranger reached into the Fade. "You mustn't!" she cried, falling in through the doorway.

But her concern was wasted.

The moment he had started to drag demons across, Hawke had acted, staking the man through heart as smoothly as if he were jabbing a knife into a pear.

The stranger's eyes went wide, and he gagged, spewing blood up onto the front of his ruffled shirt. Hawke must have pierced his lung as well.

She'd seen worse, but Merrill couldn't help flinching away from the gasping, dying man. There was a disturbingly wet noise, and then the choking stopped. Hawke had slit his throat.

Realizing that it was now just the two of them in the room with a corpse, Merrill took a deep breath and tried to edge away. Her feet refused her orders however, and she realized that the chill creeping up her legs was actually solid ice. Without realizing she'd been frozen to the spot.

"What are you doing here, Merrill?" Hawke asked her, without turning around. He wiped the blade of his staff with the crimson sash tied to his waist as he waited for her response.

I-I was just…" she stammered, "I was… well… I was curious."

He returned his staff to the clasp on his shoulder, and took a half step around so that he could watch her with his good eye.

"I wanted to know what you've been up to," she admitted, feeling as though he was still waiting for her to explain.

He said nothing for a moment, but then she felt the ice receding from around her feet. "Now you know," he told her.

Hawke brushed past her shoulder into the hallway. She chanced one more look at the bloody mess at the foot of the exorbitant bed before falling into stride behind him. She had to struggle to keep up.

"Wait!" she called, tailing after him. "Where are you heading now?"

Hawke ignored her, making his way back down the staircase, and out into the street. She followed, beseeching him as loudly as she dared in the middle of the night.

"Let me come with you!"

He glanced back at her. "Why?"

She fumbled. "I want to help. You," she managed. "I mean, if I can."

"…Go home, Merrill," Hawke said, after a second of delay.

"But—"

He rounded on her, and she drew back half a pace despite herself. It had been a long time since she'd felt the full weight of his golden eyes on her face. Even at half intensity his gaze still made the small hairs rise on the back of her neck.

"I've no need of you tonight," he told her, his voice crisp.

She swallowed, and willed herself to speak. "But will you in the future?" she asked. "When you go to meet the Arishok, maybe?"

Hawke's eye narrowed. "How do you know about that?"

"Oh!" she started. "I… um… Varric mentioned that you'd been summoned. I-it's not really my business, but I just thought, you know, you might want company. When you go to see him. He's pretty intimidating."

She looked up and noticed that Hawke was frowning. His uncovered eyebrow had arched into a skeptical slant.

"Ah… not that _you_ would be intimidated, of course," Merrill corrected herself. _Ma halani_ , she felt like a stammering fool. "You're pretty intimidating yourself."

Hawke sighed, and turned away, continuing his trek into the lower part of Hightown.

Merrill gawked. "I-I just meant—"

She chased after him.

This time she managed to keep pace the whole way back to his estate.


	5. Chapter 5

"So… he made a deal with a spirit?" Merrill asked, nudging one of Anders many tools with an inquisitive finger.

The blond warden picked the instrument off of the table and put it back in his supply bag. He didn't look up as he responded. "Actually, I think the circumstances are more like Justice and myself. But I'm not really sure."

Merrill hadn't been able to get Varric to tell her the finer points of their voyage into the Deep Roads and so, a few days after her encounter with Hawke, she'd made the trek to Darktown. Anders' small clinic had been crowded when she first arrived, but he'd seen to most of his patients now, and was no longer able to avoid her.

"So, he has a spirit _inside_ him."

Anders groaned, and she felt a little bad. She didn't mean to interrogate him; she just wanted to understand the changes that had taken place with Hawke. Their fearless leader had always been strong and just a little bit ruthless, but before he had gone underground the man had also been playful, almost coy. That side of him seemed to have completely disappeared.

"I'm not sure, Merrill," Anders conceded to her prodding. "All I know is what I've told you. Carver had collapsed, and we were about to be beaten into the ground by a rock wraith. Hawke was probably feeling desperate. There was a flash of light, and then he set the whole cave aflame, bellowing like a madman. He burned himself in the flare, and my magic couldn't heal his wounds."

She bit her lip, trying to imagine the scene.

"We're all lucky to be alive," Anders finished. "Hawke maybe the most so."

He departed from the stool beside her and began rummaging through the various poultices he kept on a table nearby.

Merrill watched his hands, dissatisfied. It was one thing if Anders genuinely didn't know more than he was telling her about the situation. But she didn't like the way he seemed unable to meet her eyes.

She tried again. "Do you at least know what _kind_ of spirit it is, Anders? A mean one or a nice one? Is there a way we could tell?"

The mage turned back to look at her, his expression tired. His eyes darted over her shoulder for a second, and then his weary face cracked into a bemused smirk.

"Well, you could ask him directly."

"What?" Merrill looked behind her and then jumped out of her chair. Hawke himself had stridden through the clinic's open door. His mabari, Marro, was close on his heels, and Fenris and Varric as well. Fenris wore his usual sour expression as his gaze washed over her. Varric flashed her a grin.

She tried to smile back, but was too preoccupied by what Hawke might have overheard. The man was focused on Anders, his hooded face almost impossible to read.

"Hawke," she spluttered, as the man moved towards the table where they stood. "Hello! We didn't hear you come in!"

Hawke looked at her like he was noticing her presence for the first time.

Anders rolled his eyes, and redirected Hawke's attention back to him. "Yes, we were just having a fascinating chat."

"Anders!" Merrill pleaded.

The healer gave an animated shrug before changing the subject. "But nevermind that. Is there something you need?"

Hawke glanced between the two of them, and then said slowly. "Yes. I've been summoned by the Arishok."

Anders' mouth fell open. "You… you want me to go with you?" He sounded just as surprised as Merrill felt.

Her pulse thrummed behind her ears, and she realized that she was beaming. This was really happening! Hawke was calling them all together again!

"Yes," Hawke said with a nod.

"Can I come?" Merrill blurted, taking a step closer to the group of men. "I asked before, remember? You didn't say 'no.'"

"I don't need you today," Hawke told her. He used the same blunt tone as he had the other night in Hightown, and it hurt her feelings.

Beside him, Anders was already stuffing poultices into a bag. "You really think my healing will be necessary?" he asked Hawke. "What does the Arishok need?"

Hawke shrugged. "I don't know."

Dejected, Merrill looked down towards where Marro sat near her knee. The black dog was staring at her with saffron eyes, nearly the same golden hue as his master's. Spiraling white _kaddis_ decorated the beast's muzzle, and Merrill stretched out a timid hand, wondering if she could touch.

Marro's hackles rose the moment he realized what she was trying to do, and he got up and moved to Hawke's other side.

"I guess better safe than sorry," Anders was saying as she tuned back into the conversation. The mage grunted as he stretched to reach behind a bookshelf. Merrill guessed that was probably where he'd hidden his staff.

"I'll meet you outside," Anders grumbled to the other men. "I'm almost done gathering my things."

The group filed out of the clinic, and when they were alone again, Merrill turned to look at Anders with baleful eyes.

"You want to go that badly?" he laughed, seeing her face. "I doubt it will be any fun."

"It's our first group mission in forever, Anders!" she whined. "Of course I want to come!"

Successfully fishing out his staff, Anders moved to rest a hand on her shoulder. "There's always next time," he said, by way of apology.

She frowned, refusing to feel comforted. "He's right though, you know." She looked at the floor. "I probably wouldn't be of much use."

Anders scoffed, and she glanced up at him, confused. "You really think he needs _my_ help?" the mage asked her pointedly. "The man's a magical genius."

Merrill looked down at the floor again, this time with a small smile.

"His own healing abilities must far surpass my own," Anders continued to praise, "I just don't think he likes using them."

"Be careful out there, Anders," Merrill told him.

He patted her shoulder gently. "You know I always try to be. I'll keep an extra eye out for Hawke and the others too."

"Good," she said. "I'll be looking forward to hearing all about it."

Anders flinched, and then practically ran away from her out of the room.

"Well, that reaction was unnecessary," she mumbled to herself.


	6. Chapter 6

A week later, Merrill went to run an errand down by the docks. One of her neighbors had offered her a bit of coin to deliver a package to an outbound merchant ship, and she'd been in no place to refuse.

The task was straight forward, and once it was accomplished, she had nothing else to do but start the hike back towards the alienage to retrieve her reward. She made her way slowly, in no particular hurry to go back to her isolated shack.

The paths along the water were far more interesting, bustling with sailors and dockhands busy about their business. She envied their confidence, and the way they all seemed certain of their tasks' significance. Nothing she did recently seemed that important. Hawke hadn't asked _her_ along on any quests, and she wasn't making any progress with her own goals.

Merrill watched the crowd as she walked, but stuck close to the building walls, trying to stay out of the way. Big men with bags and boxes still jostled her path, and she made sure to keep a tight hand on the pouch on her belt that held her few precious coppers.

Her pace dragged to a halt as she neared the Qunari compound. Craning her neck, she thought she could see the long horns of the Arishok.

Varric had told her about Hawke's meeting with the general, but she still wished that she'd gotten to experience the encounter herself.

She sidled closer to try to look through the gaps in the compound's gate, but then noticed the two large stens posted out front. Both of their eyes were trained on her face, and she retreated hastily, her heart racing.

Instead, she tried following the outer wall around the compound, looking for a spot along the fence where she might be able to get a better view. She had just found a promising breach when she caught a glimpse of raven hair, tied back with a bright blue bandana, in her periphery.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stumbled away from the fence, her original objective forgotten.

"Isabela?" she called. Her voice was lost in the shouts of the dockworkers. She followed the bobbing bandana as quickly as she could.

She lost track of the woman in the crowd, but knew that—if her pirate friend had truly returned to Kirkwall—there was only one place she would go.

Merrill threw the door to the Hanged Man open with so much force that it slammed into the inner wall. A couple disgruntled regulars cast her dirty looks for the disturbance, but she hardly noticed, her attention captured by the exotic brunette at the bar.

"Isabela!" she cried. "Is that really you?"

The woman turned, and a warm smile slid over her features. "Hello, kitten," Isabela waved.

"Oh, where have you been?" Merrill cheered, stumbling up to the pirate for a heart-felt hug. "It's so good to see you! I missed you so much!"

Isabela pulled away, her eyes slipping down towards the bar. "Good to know someone did," she muttered.

"Of course 'someone' did!" Merrill gushed. "It's been so long! I bet Hawke will—"

"Oh yes," Isabela interrupted. She slid a drink away from the man seated next to her, flashing him a smile and a wink. The man turned scarlet. "How is our dear Hawke?" she asked, her voice dry. "Got a big manor in Hightown now, or so I hear."

Merrill nodded with enthusiasm. "Yes! Hawke's is huge! Quite an impressive—"

"You've seen it?" Isabela's expression darkened in a way the elf didn't understand.

She paused. "Um. Well, just a few times. I'd like to see it again. Maybe from the inside."

Isabela leaned forward, surprising Merrill with how aggressive she suddenly seemed. "Let me tell you something," the pirate jeered. "A man like Hawke is too much for you to handle."

"I'm sorry?" Merrill choked, pulling away.

"I think you know exactly what I mean," Isabela said. Something about her tone made Merrill think that the conversation had migrated to a subject very different than that of Hawke's home.

"I-I don't," she sputtered. "I _really_ , really don't."

Isabela watched her face for a moment and then leaned back on her stool again. She let loose a deep sigh, and then tilted the beer she'd taken to her lips.

Merrill waited awkwardly for her to finish chugging, and then ventured, "So… where _have_ you been?"

The pirate wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Here and there," she evaded. "It's not important. What have I missed while I was away?" she asked. "What bollocks bidding has Hawke got you all jumping to complete?"

Merrill started to respond, but was cut off by an elbow ramming into the back of her head.

"Ales all around!" The man shouted, oblivious to the fact that he'd just hit her. The human had red hair, freckles, and a dead look in his eyes that Merrill recognized to mean that he was blind drunk. "Compliments of my new friends!"

A couple of the other customers in the bar loosed half-hearted cheers. Most of them just looked confused. Isabela rolled her eyes, and motioned for Merrill to continue with her answer.

She swallowed, and started again, massaging the small lump on her skull. "Well, not many," she admitted. "Not me anyway. He's been running errands for the Viscount I guess, and last week he and the others did a deal for the Arishok."

The pirate frowned, "Oh?"

Merrill nodded, "They broke up some conspiracy involving poison, Varric said. Half of Lowtown was flooded with the stuff. It sounded daring to me, but Varric was angry about it. Says Hawke's too 'bloodthirsty' or something."

Isabela smirked in that customary way she had. "We all know that blood doesn't bother _you,_ " she teased.

The elf knew she was only joking, but the jibe still rubbed her wrong. "Blood has its uses," she argued. "Just like anything else."

"Indeed," Isabela grinned.

Merrill readied herself to say more, but then the door to the bar slammed open again. Both she and Isabela looked up at the noise, and then Isabela dropped her gaze down to her empty drink.

"Speaking of the devil," she grumbled.

"Hawke?" Merrill said, confused. Anders, Varric, and Fenris were all with him again, and a sinking feeling settled in her gut. "…What brings you all here?"

Hawke had crossed the room as she spoke to him, his eye trained on the redheaded drunk who had elbowed her. With no introduction or explanation whatsoever, Hawke grabbed the nape of the man's neck, and slammed his face full force into the bar top.

Broken glass sprayed everywhere. People started to shout.

Merrill and Isabela were the only people in the whole bar who didn't move from their seats. The elf watched the interaction wide-eyed, while the pirate reached to swipe another abandoned drink.

Loud as the crowd of onlookers became, none were noisy enough to drown out the man that Hawke held pinned. Blood was streaming from a gash above the stranger's eye, and it looked like one of his teeth had chipped.

"Andraste's tits!" the man bellowed. "What have I done?"

"Where do you get your coin, serah?" Hawke growled in response.

The man spat blood onto the counter. "I ain't telling you shi—AIIIIII!"

The stranger started screaming, and the rancid smell of burning flesh filled the air. Smoke swirled upwards from the hand Hawke used to hold the man's face.

Patrons started fleeing out the door. Merrill was not so much scared as intrigued. What in the world was going on?

"A templar!" the man was sobbing. "Maker, spare me! It was a templar! He had orders from the Grand Cleric herself!"

Hawke ceased the torture long enough to say, "Elthina would not authorize this."

"But I can think of a certain Sister who would…" Varric interjected, watching the scene with a troubled expression on his face.

The man stammered, "A-all I know is it was the Cleric's seal on the letter!"

Hawke tightened his grip on the man's charred skin, causing him to cry out again in pain. "Where is the Qunari patrol?" he demanded. His words were sharp as a blade.

"I don't know," the redhead yelled. "What do you care for the blasted oxmen anyway?"

The man's head lifted about six inches off the wood, and then smashed back down again. Hard.

"You're lying," Hawke hissed.

"The _Undercity_ ," the man wailed, tears leaking from his eyes. "I heard they was taking them to some kind of meeting. But I've got nothing more to do with it, I swear!

"Please!" he begged. "Let me go!"

Hawke eyed him for a moment, and then did what he asked. Merrill sensed magic in the air though, and not two seconds later the man exploded, showering them all in blood.

"Well that's lovely," Isabela complained, wiping gore away from her face. "Yes, I _definitely_ missed this." She mimed waving a little flag. "Welcome back, me!"

Hawke looked at her, his expression blank.

"Do I get a 'hello'?" she challenged.

He turned away to face Merrill, his shoulders stiff.

The elf watched as he reached into one of his pockets. He held the retrieved item out to her, and she took it, still wide-eyed, with both hands. "Here," he said.

"What's this?" Merrill held the gift cupped in her palms. It was a delicately carved figurine of a halla. The artisan had taken the time to mold the tiny creature's horns into fragile twists, and the wood itself was the same soft white as real halla fur would be. It had to be made of ironbark!

"Oh my!" Merrill crooned. "Oh, Hawke this is beautiful! Where did you get this?"

She looked up only to find that Hawke had already vanished. The other men were hurriedly attempting to follow him outside. "W-where are you all going?" she called after them.

Varric threw his arms wide as he backed out of the bar. "Urgent duty apparently calls," he said with a smirk.

The door fell closed behind him, leaving Merrill and Isabela in a room full of guts, with an inconsolable barkeep.

"Why would he give this to me?" Merrill asked the pirate, not noticing the hostile look the other woman wore on her face. "What do you think it's for?"

"Don't ask me," Isabela muttered.

Merrill continued to examine the keepsake, oblivious to her friend's mood. "It looks like it could be Master Ilen's work," she fawned. "It's wonderfully made."

"I shall have to say thank you," she realized, looking up at Isabela. "I didn't get the chance."

Isabela didn't respond to her. Instead the woman pushed her spoiled drink away, and leaned over the bar. Stretching, she grabbed for a liquor bottle off the back shelf that had mostly avoided the splattering in human remains. She motioned to the bartender, still cowering in the corner. "Put this on my tab."

"I'll go thank him later," Merrill decided, slipping the halla figurine into her money pouch. "When he's done with… well… whatever they were doing. I had something I wanted to ask him about anyway."

Beside her, Isabela took a pull of whiskey, her eyes glazed.


	7. Chapter 7

Merrill went back to the Amell Estate that same evening.

Bodahn opened the door at her second knock, and this time his eyes lit up as they fell upon her face. "Why hello again, Merrill," he greeted her. "Is this twice now in less than a month? The young master has received so many more visitors recently. How marvelous."

"I'm sorry to come by so late," she mumbled, her cheeks flushing from his unexpected welcome.

"Nonsense," he said, shaking his head. He pulled the door wide. "The lord of the house returned just moments ago." The dwarf beckoned her over the threshold. "Come inside; I will check to see if he'll receive one more."

Merrill stepped into the entry hall, feeling overwhelmed. As nice as the manor in upper Hightown had been, the Amell Estate took her breath away. Bodahn led her through the arching vestibule, and into the magnificent main living space. The roof of the room had to be at least two stories high! From its cavernous ceiling hung a crystal chandelier, which held at least thirty candles in its eaves.

A giant stone fireplace decorated the right hand wall, a roaring fire in its hearth.

There were several doors leading off to the left, and oil painted portraits filled the spaces between. Merrill guessed that these must be of Hawke's ancestors, and moved closer, trying to steal a peek.

"Just wait there," Bodahn instructed, heading up the wide marble staircase towards the upper rooms. "I'll be right back."

She nodded as the dwarf went out of sight.

He had been gone for what might have thirty seconds before she started to get fidgety. The hall was empty but for the sound of her breathing and the crackling of the fire.

She figured that moving around just a little wouldn't hurt anything.

Quiet as a mouse, she snuck up to the first door on the left hand wall, and peered inside. She squealed in excitement as she absorbed the sight of the largest collection of books she had ever seen. Hawke had to have gathered at least as many tomes as any Circle in Thedas!

Her hands started to twitch, and she closed the door quickly before she was tempted to start rooting around.

The second door on the wall led to a giant pantry. It was filled with the wonderful aroma of cooking food, and Bodahn's son, who was chattering happily to himself on a bench near the wrought-iron stove. Merrill smiled at the boy's innocent glee, and eased the door shut so as not to disturb him.

The final door was set back a few paces behind the stair. She darted down the short hallway, eager to check the last room before Bodahn came back.

When she tried the handle though, she was surprised to find it bolted from the inside. Interest piqued, she pressed her ear to the door.

Through the wood she heard the stifled sound of tears.

She pulled away sharply, realizing whose rooms she'd just tried to force her way into.

"Have you business with my mother?" a deep voice behind her asked.

"Oh!"

Merrill turned to face Hawke, wringing her hands in shame.

The man glared down at her, and Marro growled from his place at his master's feet. Hawke still wore his blood-splattered clothes from earlier, although it looked like he had just recently washed his face.

"N-no," Merrill moaned, not able to meet his gaze. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I… " The elf trailed off, expression full of woe as she gazed at the closed door.

"Is she doing any better?" she wondered softly.

She didn't expect Hawke to give her a straight answer, but after a moment, he told her, "…No."

Merrill turned her face up to him then. The way he'd said that single word had made her feel as if her heart might break.

"Hawke, I'm so sorry," she murmured.

He looked at the floor. "Why are you here, Merrill?"

She swallowed, clearing her throat. "I wanted to thank you," she said. "For the statuette you gave me earlier. It was beautiful."

"It wasn't anything special," he responded, still looking at the ground. "Just something I found, and had no use for."

She smiled to herself, twiddling her thumbs. "You could have sold it," she told him. "It's clearly made of ironbark; it would have fetched a fair price."

He crossed his arms, and his striking stare returned to her face. "Was this all you wanted to say?" he asked.

His words were brusque, but there was nervousness to them that she thought she understood. Not wanting to make him more uncomfortable, she let the subject change. "Well, no," she admitted. "I was also wondering, actually, if you might be able to help me with something."

"Help with what?" Hawke questioned, not blinking.

"It's… um…" Merrill stumbled over her words as she tried to think of how best to explain. After a moment, she gave up and shrugged. "It might just be easier if I show you."

Hawke uncrossed his arms. "Right now?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know it's late. But it might actually be better if you come in the night. It'll attract less attention this way."

The man frowned, and cast a lingering look towards his mother's chambers. Merrill held her breath, waiting for him to make up his mind.

"Fine," he agreed after a moment. "I'll inform Bodahn, and then we'll go."

…

It was especially embarrassing to have Hawke visit her hovel after having seen the full brilliance of his family's estate. She wished she'd at least taken the chance to tidy up the place before she'd gone and asked him for aid.

Hawke, for his part, didn't seem to mind the barren surroundings. He was just confused about what they were doing there in the first place.

"Over here," she said, motioning for him to follow her into the shack's sleeping area.

He didn't move a muscle, and she realized with a start what it must seem like she was asking him to do—inviting him into her bedroom at this hour.

"Mythal, no!" she yelped, heat radiating from her cheeks. "I don't mean it like that at all! The object I want you to look at is in here, and it's too heavy for me to lift!"

Still watching her, skeptical, Hawke followed her through the door. His frown deepened when he noticed the mirror in the corner.

"You see," she said, still flustered. "It's called an 'Eluvian'. It's a historic artifact of my clan. A kind of magic mirror."

Hawke came to stand before the black glass, his expression unreadable. "It's broken," he said, after a moment.

"Yes," she inclined, "although the crack isn't really the issue. It should still function despite it, but I've tried everything I can think of to make it work, and no matter what I try it still won't do anything at all. "

"What is it supposed to do?" he asked her.

She hesitated, wondering if she should admit to ignorance, and decided that there was no reason to hold anything back. She had asked him for his assistance after all.

"Well… I'm not exactly sure," she said. "But it's clearly old, and the symbols around the edge are definitely elvish. I've been working on deciphering them, and what I think is that the mirror has some connection to the elves before our fall."

"That's very vague," Hawke told her.

She crossed her arms. "Well, you're welcome to try and read it if you think you can do better," she snipped.

His eye darted along the edge of the frame but, if he understood any of the symbols, his expression didn't change. Instead he reached out to rest a gentle hand against the glass.

He flinched, and yanked his hand back as if he'd been bitten.

His reaction startled her, and her mind flashed to the incident in the Brecillian forest. Tamlan and Lyna sprawled out in the dirt—dead before they even knew something was wrong. Merrill shook herself, regaining her composure.

No. Little improvement as she had made, she had managed to make the mirror safe. No tragedy like that would befall her again.

"What's the matter?" she asked. She cleared her throat so that it wouldn't sound so dry.

"This is powerful," Hawke told her, his voice low.

She scoffed. "Of course it is. Like I said, it's very old and—"

"It's dangerous."

"No!" Merrill said, too loudly. She took a deep breath. "No, I mean, of course there are risks, as with anything involving the Fade, but I've taken care to prevent any…."

Hawke looked at her fully. His gaze was so intense that she quite forgot what she'd been about to say.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asked her.

"W-well," she stuttered, "I was hoping you might be able to help me fix it. I have an idea to make it work; I just need your help to get something first."

"What?"

She began to wring her hands. This conversation wasn't going at all the way she'd wanted it to. "It's called an arulin'holm. It's a tool that my clan possesses, but the Keeper would never let me borrow it. She and the other Dalish fear the mirror."

Hawke's eye narrowed, and he stared at her for several uncomfortable seconds. "Is this why you were sent away from them?" he said, finally.

His question took her aback, and her mouth fell open, unsure how to respond. Was it really so simple a thing for him to guess?

She saw then that the subject was spiraling. There was no way he would be willing to help her fix the mirror if he was that easily able to see the clan's reasoning. He would try to stop her now. Just like everybody else.

"That's…" she moaned, helplessly, "They just don't understand!"

Hawke's gaze did not soften as he said, "Keeper Marethari is right to fear this mirror. She must realize that she does not have the strength to control it. And neither do you."

The ease with which he called her weak cut her to her core. She stifled any sadness by growing angry instead. "However little you think of my strength," she spat, "I assure you that I do know what I'm doing."

His face took on a look that she didn't recognize, and he backed away a pace, making room in front of the mirror for her to stand beside him. "Put your hand here," he commanded, gesturing to a spot on the glass.

She balled her fingers into fists, resistant. "I don't want—"

But he ignored her complaints. In a swift motion he reached out and caught her hand.

Her body jerked forward into his. "W-what are you doing?" she demanded, trying to pull away. Hawke didn't let her budge. Instead he pressed her palm flat beneath his to the mirror's surface.

"Hush," he said. "Can you feel it?"

His words sent warm air tingling past her cheek, and she couldn't feel anything at all short of the rising color in her skin.

"Feel what exactly?" she mumbled.

Hawke readjusted his grip, so that now his arm was around her and his chest was pressed full across her shoulders. "Focus," he said, "Draw on my power if you need."

Merrill's heart was beating so fast she thought it might hammer its way out of her ribcage. She fit perfectly into the curvature of his arm, and his torso felt muscular and secure behind her back. Try as she might, the only thing she could give any attention to was the shiver of his gentle breath as it whispered against her temple.

His face was just centimeters from her own, and she noticed that he had closed his eye to concentrate. She closed hers as well, and hoped that it would help.

For several seconds she continued to feel nothing other than him, but then she noticed a small pulling at the edge of her consciousness.

When she focused on it, the feeling intensified. Fearful, she tried to draw back, but realized that her psyche was stuck—ensnared by some huge power that she could hardly even perceive. Without warning, the face of a skeletal demon flashed in her mind's eye, and she had the terrifying notion that maybe it could see her too.

Then she felt herself being ripped away, and collapsed—in great relief—into a pile in Hawke's waiting arms. He let them both sink to the ground.

"Did you see it?" he asked, as she caught her breath. His tone was ominous.

She nodded, gulping. "What is it?"

He leaned away from her in the crammed space. His shoulders bumped against her bed's frame. "A demon," was his curt response.

"A spirit," she corrected him. "But what kind?"

"One that would kill you."

She turned on the floor to face him. "How can you know that?" she demanded. "Perhaps it wishes it make a deal."

Hawke frowned at her. "Anything that creature would offer would be a false bargain," he said. "Could you really not sense its intent?"

"It was scary to look at," she admitted, "But that is not a reason to make assumptions—"

"Merrill." Hawke cut her off with a withering glare, and then made to rise to his feet.

She caught his hand. "Wait. I want to see it again."

"Why?" he wanted to know.

"Because I noticed something," she told him. "There's something else there, and I want to see what it was."

She climbed to her feet, and Hawke reluctantly acquiesced, pressing his hand once again to the back of hers.

It was easier this time for her mind to slip into the mirror's space.

She saw the demon again, and if she had been conscious of her body she would have shivered, because this time she was certain that the creature was aware of her company. It was difficult, but she tried to ignore the demon, and concentrate instead on what she saw behind.

Hawke pulled her back again and this time she was too excited to let her body drop.

"Could you see it also?" she cried, spinning around and clutching his wrists. She was so invigorated that she was actually bouncing on the tips of her toes.

Hawke said nothing, but his wide-eyed surprise was all that she needed.

"Those ruins were elven," she gushed, "Like a picture book! Like a perfectly preserved kingdom of old!" She released the man's arms and pressed her hands to her cheeks, completely lost in her joy. "It's Arlathan, Hawke! And it's just sitting—waiting!—right there in the Fade! I have to go there! I have to go see—"

"Merrill," Hawke stopped her, "It's not Arlathan. It's the Black City. This thing is a gateway in."

"The Black City?" she said, flaring at him. "And just what exactly do you think that is? You think it's just the 'Seat of the Maker' and all that stuff the clerics spout in the Chant?"

He started to say something but she didn't let him, too energized to let him cut in on her rant. "We elves have passed on stories of an Eternal City since time not remembered. It is the seat of our pantheon, and has been ever since The Dread Wolf tricked the Creators into the Fade!"

Her last words echoed through the room, and then a tense silence fell. Hawke said nothing. He just watched her, his jaw locked, and a raised vein pulsing in his neck.

"Um…" she coughed, remembering herself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout."

"I will talk to Keeper Marethari about the arulin'holm," Hawke said, his voice no more than a whisper.

Merrill's energy returned instantly. She clapped her hands together and squealed. "You will?! Do you mean it? Truly, you'll help me fix the Eluvian?"

He shook his head. "You will not come with me."

It felt like she'd been punched in the gut. As quickly as it had come, the enthusiasm flooded out of her, and a bitter resentment settled in.

"What are you talking about? Why wouldn't I?"

Hawke pulled the hood of his cloak back up over his head, and made to exit the room.

"Oh no!" she yelled, chasing after him, "I didn't show you this so that you'd ban me from it! I will participate, or I'll do it alone!" She grabbed onto his arm. "You can't—!"

Hawke twisted in her grasp.

Not sure how it had happened, she found herself being lifted off her feet and shoved backwards into the wall, his forearm digging into her throat.

"Do not tell me what I cannot do," he snarled.

His golden glare drilled into her, but for once she was not intimidated by it. "You cannot chase me off!" she gasped. "The Eluvian is Dalish! And I will die before I hand it over to anyone. Even you!"

Several emotions flickered like static across Hawke's face, and then he let her fall. She sagged against the wood, coughing as air returned to her lungs.

"…We'll leave for Sundermount at first light," Hawke muttered, turning away.

She looked up, not sure she'd heard him correctly. Did that mean he'd changed his mind about taking her with?

He paused again just as he was leaving, his hand rested on the metal doorknob. With his hood pulled up, she could only see his mouth as he said, "When the Eluvian is fixed… if you fall prey to that demon… I will not save you."

"I won't need saving," she shot back, caressing her neck.

The man hesitated a half second longer, and the wrenched the door open and disappeared into the night.


	8. Chapter 8

"Could someone please remind me why we're out here again?" Varric asked, his voice flat beneath his breath.

"I would ask the same, Hawke," Fenris growled. The warrior's hand had not strayed from the hilt of his greatsword since their group had approached the mountain's base. Now with Sundermount stretching tall above them, and the unforgiving eyes of her old clan hanging on their every move, Fenris looked ten seconds away from a full-blown whirlwind rampage.

Merrill chewed her bottom lip. She understood the pair's discomfort, but thought it not their business to complain. After all, it wasn't like any of the Dalish glares were being directed at either of _them_.

She did wonder how much Hawke had told their companions about their objective at Sundermount though. She hadn't asked him to keep the mirror private from the group, but maybe it would be better if he did.

When Hawke didn't respond to either of the other men's whispered questions, Merrill said hastily, "You both don't need to worry. Hawke is just helping me out with a quick errand."

Varric arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He and Fenris exchanged glances. The lyrium-scarred elf adjusted his sword grip for the thousandth time and muttered, "Now I am even more concerned…"

Merrill frowned.

They were in the center of the Dalish camp by that point, and any retort she might have made was cut short by the approach of the elves' Keeper.

Marethari had aged only a little in the last several years, but Merrill noticed every change as if it had occurred to her own face. Every new line on the woman's dignified countenance caused her heart to writhe.

Merrill had not anticipated this sensitivity and looked down at her toes as the Keeper drew close. She wondered if there would ever be a time in her life where she truly stopped missing her old family and friends.

"Serah Hawke?" The Keeper said, once she was near enough to be heard. " _Andaran atish'an_. The hunters told me you had come to visit us, or else I would not have recognized your face." Merrill noticed Hawke readjust his stance under Marethari's searching gaze, but he said nothing by way of response.

"These last few years have not been kind to you, have they, _da'len_?" the Keeper murmured to him with a concerned smile. Then Marethari's moss colored eyes fell unto Merrill's face and it was her turn to squirm beneath their warmth.

Because this woman was the one who had disowned her from the clan, Merrill would have understood if the Keeper's gaze had been distant or resentful, but there was no trace of anger to be found.

In fact, Marethari's eyes, when they met her own, looked so full of genuine happiness and hope that Merrill felt she might be crushed beneath a wave of self-loathing.

"And is this our Merrill?" the Keeper spoke, her voice full of compassion. "After all this time, _ma vhenan_ , have you decided to return to us?"

Merrill doubted that there was anyone else in Thedas who could make her feel so perpetually bad about herself.

"No, Keeper," she said. Merrill took a short breath to steady her nerves, and then began to explain.

"Hawke and I are here to borrow the _arulin'holm_."

Marethari's brows knit together for a moment, and then understanding dawned on her face. She looked between the two of them, stunned. "Do not tell me you are still fixated on that mirror, _da'len_? _Vallem venavis_. Is it so difficult a temptation to push from your mind?"

"Keeper—"

"And you support her in this?" Marethari spoke over her, staring at Hawke. "Has she told you what that object is? What it has done?"

Merrill was conscious of Fenris and Varric's disapproving looks, and the way they both shifted on the balls of their feet. So much for her wanting to keep them minimally involved. They would have questions for her now, and the situation would not be easy to explain.

But this was always going to be hard. She'd known that. She lifted her chin and steeled her resolve.

"He has seen it, and we are both aware of the dangers involved," she said.

The Keeper shook her head, her eyes never leaving Hawke's face. He held her stare. "I cannot believe this," she told him, "and I will not support it. I will not—"

"Keeper," Merrill interrupted, raising her voice loud enough so as not to be passed over again. "I know that you have never agreed with me regarding the mirror but, with Hawke's help, I'm sure we can use the Eluvian to help this clan."

"No," Marethari shook her head.

"But elves everywhere—"

"No, Merrill. Do not ask this of me. You cannot ask this of me."

Merrill clenched her jaw. She knew the Keeper was only trying to do what she thought was right, but how could she be so stubborn when such a limitless pool of elven memory had fallen into their laps? "I am not asking, Keeper," she said. "I am insisting. If I must, I will invoke _vir sulevanan_. You cannot deny another of the Dalish access to a cultural artifact if she requests a task to earn it."

Keeper Marethari's mouth opened and closed as she tried to come up with some sort of argument, but Merrill knew she had won. It felt dirty to have had to rely on the entitlement code, but the Keeper had tied her hands.

"So be it," the older woman said. Her voice sounded heavier. Aged. Merrill almost wished that she could plug her ears. "You have chosen this road; _mala suledin nadas_."

Merrill braced herself, wondering what sort of task the elder would set. The code dictated that that act had to be physically possible, but that didn't mean that it couldn't be difficult, or even dangerous.

"The clan has been plagued recently by the wrath of a varterral living in the caves nearby," the Keeper told them with a sigh. "We have sent hunters into the mountain to try and calm the beast, but none have yet returned. The task I will ask of you is to rid us of this scourge, and to rescue any of the hunters who may still be alive. Once that is done, I will be forced to give you what you seek."

" _Ma serannas_ , Keeper," Merrill thanked the woman, hanging her head.

"Have the _arulin'holm_ ready," Hawke muttered to the elder, finally breaking his silence.

The Keeper looked up at him, her expression clouded. "Serah," she said. "Misguided as it is, I understand Merrill's enthusiasm in restoring the Eluvian. If you forgive me saying so, I do not understand yours. What significance could it possibly bear for a Kirkwall noble and his family?"

Hawke didn't answer, but something in his expression made Merrill think that he looked almost sad. Marethari must have noticed the emotion as well because she continued, "I beg you to rethink this. I cannot deny that you are a fearsomely competent mage but, in matters of the Fade, even you can end up in over your head."

"Thank you for your concern, Keeper," Merrill said. She put a pressuring hand on Hawke's forearm, trying to pull him away before Marethari's words could dissuade their endeavor. "We will be careful."

Hawke let himself be turned, and started up the mountain trail. Merrill followed him eagerly, and Varric and Fenris fell into formation behind.

Even with the two men at her back, Merrill could still feel the weight of the Keeper's sorrowful eyes on her shoulders. The feeling didn't fade until they reached the end of the mountain footpath, and entered into the caves.


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris and Varric started probing for details the moment their group passed out of the Dalish clans' earshot.

"I don't like this errand of yours at all, Daisy," Varric told her, as they entered the Sundermount cavern's maw.

She stared at the uneven path beneath her feet, trying to appear impassive. "Well, you don't have to like it."

"What's this mirror that the Keeper seems so wary of?" he pressed, matching her pace.

It was hard to avoid him when he was looking straight at her. Merrill glanced at Hawke, hoping he might come to her aid, but the man seemed lost in his own thoughts, his attention focused on something far away.

"It's an elven artifact," she sighed. "It's broken at the moment, but I want to restore it. The tool I asked the Keeper for will help with that."

Behind her, Fenris grumbled, "If 'restoring' it involves your blood magic, this mirror is undoubtedly better off the way it is."

"Then feel free to return home, Fenris," Merrill nipped. "If that would make you more comfortable."

"Hardly," the white haired elf scoffed. "As they say, 'keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.'"

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she snapped. "Must you always be so gloomy?"

Varric laughed out loud at her words.

"Daisy!" he said, nudging her in the ribs with his elbow. "Do you mean to say that you _don't_ find his permanent frown tantalizing? And here, I thought you'd become a fan of 'moody' men!"

Heat rose in Merrill's cheeks.

"This is not a field trip," came Hawke's gruff voice ahead of them.

Their conversation had slowed them down, and he stood farther down the cavern's walkway, looking back at them in annoyance. Merrill and Fenris grimaced at his rebuke, but Varric folded over in a fit of giggles.

"We're coming, serah!" he quipped through his laughter.

Merrill picked up her pace to get away from the dwarf and his teasing.

"Don't forget what we're here to do," Hawke continued, glaring at Varric as they caught up to him on the trail. "And stay alert."

The narrow tunnel they had entered grew wide and cavernous as they pressed forward. Their footsteps reverberated among the stalactites on the cave's ceiling, making it sound like there were other visitors in the caverns besides the four of them. Merrill saw spiders crawling along the rock walls, and shivered. The creatures were nearly as large as she was, and she hated the clicking sound their mandibles made.

Varric recovered from his amusement as their group delved deeper into the caves. As far as they'd come, they'd still seen no sign of the varterral, and the growing anticipation of an encounter was sharpening all of their moods.

"I thought the Keeper said there would be other hunters here," the dwarf reminded them, as he scouted off to the left.

Merrill swallowed. "Maybe they're still further ahead," she said. "Or maybe they—"

"Died," Fenris interrupted. She turned to yell at him for being insensitive, but then realized that the other elf was crouched near a mound along the right wall of the cavern. She hid her face from the sight of the disemboweled flesh, not wanting to recognize the corpse if it was somebody she knew.

"How terrible, she murmured.

"It's strange," Fenris said quietly, examining the body. "Varterrals are typically creatures loyal to the Elvhen. I've never heard of one attacking the Dalish."

"What do you mean?" Merrill asked.

Fenris cast her a barbed look. "I mean that one of the members of your clan must have done something horrific to make it so angry."

Just then the sound of frantic footsteps reached their ears. Merrill and Hawke turned to the noise. Fenris stood up and loosed his sword without prompting, and Varric cocked Bianca.

Seconds later an elf burst around the fork of a tunnel and into the cave with them. He looked for all the world as if he ran from the Archdemon itself. Panic-stricken, the boy's foot caught, and twisted on an unseen rock and he went flying. He landed on the jagged ground with a groan.

"Pol?" Merrill yelped. She realized she knew the elf. He was a member of her clan! She ran over to him as he pushed himself up onto his knees. The boy moaned and shook his head, clearly disoriented.

"Pol, are you all right?" Merrill asked him. She knelt down, and rested a hand on his shoulder. "What are you running from? Did Marethari send you after the varterral?

The young hunter looked up at her, his eyes bleary. His gaze suddenly sharpened as it came to rest upon her face.

"You!" he hissed, wrenching his arm away from her grasp.

"What?" she said, startled by his violent reaction.

The boy scrambled backwards away from her, the whites showing all the way around his eyes. "Don't touch me, demon!" he bellowed. He hauled himself back to his feet, and bolted backwards into the opening he'd just run from. "This whole mess is _your_ fault!"

"Pol, wait!" she cried after him. She chased him down the short corridor, not caring if the others followed. The boy obviously wasn't in his right mind! She needed to catch him and help him before-!

Merrill rounded the corner to the sound of a monster's scream. The cavern she'd entered held a large underground lake, and at its bank, not twenty meters away, stood a spiderlike monster the likes of which she had never seen.

It had five massive legs that held its body high above her head. Each leg seemed carved from wood or stone, and ended in cruelly hooked spikes the length of her staff. Two grasping arms hung from its body. Each had taloned hands, and she watched in horror as they closed around Pol's throat.

"No!" she wailed, throwing herself towards the monster.

A strong grasp caught her arm and yanked her backwards.

"Don't lose your head!" Hawke shouted in her face.

He tossed her over to the side, and began hurling fireballs at the back of the varterral's thorax. The beast roared, and released the elven hunter from its claws.

"Help us out, Daisy!" Varric prompted, yelling from across the grotto. He fired crossbow bolt after bolt at the monster. Bianca's engineering made it so that he hardly needed to stop to reload.

Merrill saw the Fenris was there as well, already hacking at the creature's legs and vulnerable underbelly.

She was the only one not helping. With a throaty cry she loosed a spirit bolt, and joined in the fray.

…

The varterral moved like lightning despite its size, and put up a tremendous fight, but the four of them managed to bring it down in the end. Amber colored blood seeped from a multitude of wounds and slashes along its body, but Merrill didn't pause to examine it overlong.

Instead she ran to the edge of the cavern pool, where Pol and fallen and still lay—unmoving and covered in mud.

She wasn't as trained in the healing arts as Anders, but it didn't take a master to see the gashes in the boy's neck, or the hole in his chest. From the look of it, one of the varterral's spiked legs must have pierced him. The boy might have already been dead before she'd even caught up to him.

Unable to accept it, she checked the elf's pulse. She flipped the boy over, and then leaned forward to listen for his breaths. When both of those tests failed, she began to shove her hands against his chest, in an attempt to restart his heart. It wouldn't have been so hard if she could only find a way to stop her tears.

"He's gone, Merrill," Varric said gently. All of the men had come to stand around her on the water's bank. The dwarf kneeled beside her on the wet earth. He placed a soothing hand on her shoulder.

She shook him off. "He's not," she moaned. "He can't be."

"Merrill…"

"He was alive, Varric!" she sobbed. "He was safe, and we could have helped him! He shouldn't have run away!"

Her arms were shaking, and she stopped her efforts to revive the body, instead cradling her face in her trembling hands. "Why?" she demanded of Pol, "Why did you run? Why would you run?!"

"What else does one do when they encounter a monster?" Fenris growled. His voice was so low that she almost didn't hear it, but she choked on her tears as the words sunk in.

Did Fenris mean that Pol had run away from _her_? That seeing _her_ had been worse than encountering the varterral, and that his death was therefore _her_ fault? She remembered the way the boy had reacted when he'd recognized her face but… there was no reason for him to be so frightened! Not unless…. Had Marethari turned the rest of the clan against the mirror too?

"Fenris," Hawke warned, his eye flashing. The elven warrior returned his glare coolly for a moment, and then looked away.

"I only speak the truth."

"Do you need a minute to yourself, Daisy?" Varric asked her. He tried to touch her shoulder again, and this time she let him. She couldn't feel his hand though. Her whole body was numb.

She noticed that she had stopped crying. Her sadness had been replaced by a hollow feeling. Fenris was right. This was her fault, and there was no point in staying any longer and making things worse for the clan she loved.

She felt a gaze on her, and looked up at Hawke. His eye held hers, his expression as impossible to discern as it always was.

"No," she mumbled. "We've done what the Keeper asked. Let's get what we came for and leave. We've been here long enough."


	10. Chapter 10

Evening found Merrill back in her own hovel.

She'd lit a small fire in the hearth when she'd returned from the caves, but now only embers remained. A thick wax candle on the table in the main room served as the only other source of light in the tiny shack.

She sat alone in the near dark, digging the tip of _arulin'holm_ into the tabletop. The carving tool's blade was etched in ruins similar to the ones that lined the edge of the Eluvian, and Merrill still had no idea what they meant.

She did know that the chisel was able to carve through the thin wood of the old table with hardly any effort, and if she'd been thinking clearly she might have been upset about the damage she was doing. But her mind was fevered. Her hands felt like they were not her own. Her actions were outside of her ability to control.

There was a rattling sound at the front of the room, and then her door swung inwards. She started, jumping to her feet, and wiping tears from her cheeks.

"Oh. Hawke," she said. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. Come in. I should have assumed you'd come by."

"If you weren't expecting me, why was your door open?"

She didn't hear him. Half-heartedly, she began to try and tidy up the stacks of books and papers on her table. She noticed the deep gashes on the wood surface for the first time and quickly put a tome on top of them, hoping that Hawke had not seen.

"Why is my house always such a mess when I have visitors?" she mumbled sheepishly.

She grimaced a smile in Hawke's direction. "Just let me—"

"You are still dwelling on the death of that elf," he muttered. The man had closed the door by then, and moved to stand by the entrance to her bedroom. He leaned there in the shadows against the wall, his arms crossed.

Merrill's head snapped up at his words, irritated and ashamed to be so blatantly called out. "' _Dwelling_ ' is a rather harsh word for it," she retorted. "But yes; I am still upset. I've known Pol since I was a child."

She could see the glint of Hawke's eye as it continued to watch her face, but she couldn't make out a shred of sympathy in his expression through the darkness. "You pursue power, Merrill," he told her. "His death will not be the last on your path."

"I don't pursue power," she corrected, "I pursue knowledge. It's completely different."

"In this matter, it isn't," he insisted. "The Eluvian is corrupted by powerful magic. It can kill. Restoring it _will_ come at some cost."

"And what makes you think that cost hasn't already been paid?" she demanded. Her hands clenched tightly into fists.

Hawke's tone was infuriating. She was a mage too. He was not the only one who understood the Fade and its consequences.

"I know better than you how dangerous the mirror is, Hawke," she continued, coming out from around the table. "It killed two members of my clan before the last Blight, right in front of my eyes. All they did was touch it! That was it, and then they were dead. There was nothing that I could do for them."

"But _you_ were able to touch the mirror safely last night," she reminded him. "And that is because of _my_ work. Since that time I have personally made the sacrifices that enabled you to examine the Eluvian without coming to harm. The mirror is bound to me now, and if it's going to exact a 'cost' of anyone, the burden is going to be mine, and mine alone."

Hawke was quiet for several seconds before responding. When he did speak, his voice was hard. "You are naïve, Merrill."

Her temper flared. "I am not!"

"There is always collateral damage where demons are involved," Hawke warned her. "If you cannot understand that, then you should abandon this endeavor right now."

"I will not," she shouted. "I will fix the mirror, and I will do it while keeping everyone safe."

"What about today made you think that you can keep _anyone_ safe?" he challenged.

Merrill raked her fingers through her hair, furious and trying frantically to keep from bursting back into tears. "Oh leave me alone, Hawke!" she bellowed, "Just because you couldn't save Carver—"

The words had hardly passed through her lips before she slapped her hand over them. That was too far. Angry as she was, she knew that bringing up his brother's death in this context was crossing a line Hawke would not forgive.

She only needed to look at the man to know that she'd censored her words too late.

Hawke's whole body had gone ridged. His expression was frozen on his face, but there was a feral gleam in his uncovered eye that Merrill had never seen before. Her whole body went cold.

"T-that was uncalled for," she stammered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I just—I got angry, and I—"

"I was not strong enough to save my brother," Hawke hissed, straightening. His voice was so soft she had to strain to hear him, but she perceived clearly the vitriol that coated his tone. "And whatever abilities I have gained since then," he continued, "I am still not strong enough to save you from your own stupidity."

He moved away from the wall then, and started towards the exit with sure, steady strides. Panic burbled up from Merrill's belly. In her heart was the inexplicable, yet certain, fear that if he walked through her door the way things were, she would never see him again.

"N-no, Hawke, wait!" she sputtered, scrambling forward to catch hold of his arm. "Please don't leave!"

He slapped her hands away.

Desperate, she hurled herself against the door when he tried to open it. "Please!" she pleaded. The door slammed closed with a crack. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry. Please…."

Warm tears slid down over her cheeks, and she tried to scrub them away as she turned 'round against the wood to face him. She held the doorknob behind her back with both hands, almost willing that the door itself would disappear.

She'd rather be trapped there forever than watch him go.

Without Hawke and the others she would have nothing. No home, no friends, no clan, no purpose.

The thought—on top of Pol's death, and everything else—was more than she could bear.

He stood, unyielding, before her. His ferocious gaze continued to spit fire at her face, but he didn't speak. She wondered fleetingly if maybe she'd made him so upset that he'd _actually_ hurt her to get her out of the way.

"…You bait demons you do not understand," he told her finally. His voice was strained.

She thought about the demon he'd shown her in the Eluvian, and she shook her head, miserable. "I'm not trying to," she moaned. "I'm trying to be careful. But that's why I need your help, Hawke. I can't take back what I said, but I'll do whatever I can to make it up to you."

When he said nothing, she continued, "I just was upset and out of sorts. There's no excuse; I know that. But I truly didn't mean to hurt you. Please forgive me. Please stay."

His eye widened. "Hurt me?" he said, incredulous.

"Haven't I?" she responded. Her shoulders shivered against the door.

"Pol was not my brother by blood," she whispered, "but he was family, and what I started to say to you about Carver's death is an unfair comparison to the guilt that I feel for Pol's."

"I have spent the last few hours wishing I had been stronger," she murmured, not even sure if her thoughts were still making coherent sense. "If so, Pol might have lived. That's how I have been thinking. But what you were telling me is that 'wishing' won't change anything, and it was cruel of me to have lashed out against that realism in the way that I did."

Hawke shifted his weight, and Merrill chanced a look at his face. The man's glare had sunk towards the floor. She could still see tension in his jaw, but some of the rigidity in his shoulders had ebbed.

"I promise I'll do better," she ventured. "I promise I'll honor my limitations, and I'll listen to your warnings and advice. Truly. I swear."

Hawke's eye peered back upward to search her expression. She swallowed hard, praying to every god she knew that he would locate whatever it was he was trying to find.

"Will you forgive me?" she asked. Her voice emerged hardly louder than a squeak.

He closed his eye and sighed.

The relief that swelled through her was so forceful she thought it might lift her from her feet. Without thinking she tumbled forward. Her hands caught onto Hawke's tunic, and she rested her forehead against his chest.

"Thank you," she breathed.


	11. Chapter 11

After that night, Hawke left the project of fixing the mirror to her. He came by every so often to check on her progress, but mostly he stayed out of the way.

It wasn't a tense absence. In fact, in quite the opposite way, it made Merrill feel as though he trusted her more. Her promises for caution must have satisfied him somehow, because he seemed content to let her progress as she saw fit, offering input only when she requested it.

Merrill knew it was unwarranted for her to feel so pleased and emboldened by his newfound deference, but she couldn't help her lifted mood.

Thoughts of her clan, and the troubles looming over Kirkwall, faded into the background whenever she could devote an hour or two into trying to crack the mirror's secrets. And the weight of those responsibilities disappeared entirely whenever she thought she'd made a breakthrough. She was beginning to savor the excuse to discuss history and magical theory with the other mage.

When she could get him talking, Hawke was a wellspring of thought and knowledge. He seemed to be able to remember verbatim almost everything he had ever read.

She pondered this talent of his as she made her way happily up to Hightown. Perhaps she would ask him about it outright after she told him about the mirror's new sheen. Recently the glass had taken on a bluish sort of hue. Instead of looking straight into shadow when she inspected the mirror's face, she was beginning to feel more like she was gazing into a very deep pool.

She giggled to herself, and picked up her pace.

"You seem in high spirits," a familiar voice said, falling into step by her side.

"Isabela!" Merrill grinned. She stretched her arms out in front of her as far as they could go. "You know what? I am!"

The pirate flashed her a chagrined sort of smile. "How?" she asked, "The Qunari are surging at their compound walls. Don't you feel it? Kirkwall is on the brink of war."

Merrill's eyes fled to the side. She _could_ feel it, and she knew the tension had Aveline in particular chomping at the bit, but she couldn't seem to make herself any more concerned. Especially not now when she had more interesting happenings to focus on.

"Yes, I know," she admitted, smiling bashfully. "But… I don't know. I'm just happy. I can't help it."

"Well, good for you, I guess" Isabela smirked. "Where are you headed?"

"To visit Hawke," Merrill gushed, not noticing how animated her words and gestures became the moment she said the man's name. "I have something to tell him."

Isabela became preoccupied with one of the buckles on her dagger belt. "Tell him what?" she asked, her voice dry.

Merrill hugged herself, "Oh nothing much. Just updating him on a project."

"Varric and Fenris might have mentioned that," Isabela said. "Something about a mirror? You must be making a lot of progress; you and Hawke have been spending a lot of time together lately."

The elf's cheeks turned crimson. Her hands flew up towards her face, actively trying to fan away the heat. "You think so?" she stammered. "It hasn't been that much time really. He's always so busy. But yes, I guess maybe he has been around a bit. He's very helpful. I mean, he's terrifying too, but he has his moments where he's really.… And he knows so much! I never realized he…."

Merrill turned her flushed gaze up to Isabela and realized that her friend's expression had gone blank. The pirate seemed to have stopped listening to her.

"Ah, I'm sorry," the elf giggled, embarrassed. "I'm rambling. Where are you heading?"

"…I need to talk to Hawke as well."

"Really?" Merrill wondered. "What about?

The women had reached the gates of the Amell Estate by the time Merrill asked her question, and Isabela bit the corner of her lip with a frown, as if debating how she wanted to respond.

Keeping an eye on her friend, Merrill lifted her arm to the iron wrought doorknocker. But before she could bring the hammer down, the door was yanked out of her hand.

Hawke's uncle bolted out of the opening. The old man looked paler than usual, and had dark rings under his eyes.

He hardly looked twice at Merrill or Isabela, despite having barreled into them. Instead he just pushed his way clear, and then took off at a stumbling run in the direction from which they had just arrived.

"What was that?" Isabela said, their conversation forgotten.

Merrill wondered the same thing. She peered through estate's front door, concerned.

Hawke and Bodahn were talking in rushed voices at the end of the vestibule. Hawke was dressed in all of his armor and combat clothes, staff in hand despite the time of day.

Merrill thought she heard Bodahn say, "You go help Gamlen look for her, serah. My boy and I will stay here in case she returns."

Hawke said something in response, and then started towards the door. His expression was dark, but distracted. Merrill's heart began beating faster. If she didn't know better she might have thought he looked afraid.

"What's going on?" Isabela leaned over Merrill to ask.

"My mother's missing," he said.

"What?" Merrill didn't understand.

Isabela seemed confused too. "Was she—"

"Stand aside," Hawke demanded, shouldering his way past them over the threshold. "I don't have time to talk."

Marro darted out the door after his master, sticking close to the space around Hawke's legs. The dog's ears were pressed flat against its head.

"Wait!" Merrill called after them. Her feet had begun to follow Hawke even before she'd made the conscious decision to go along. She didn't understand exactly what was happening, but she didn't want him to go on his own. "I'm coming with you!"

"Me too," Isabela agreed, tailing after them both.

Hawke did not acknowledge their words, but he also didn't try to dissuade them.

Just outside the gate, Merrill noticed Aveline and a couple other guards crossing the plaza. The Captain froze when she saw them running out of the estate, her eyes narrowed on Hawke's indiscreet bearing of his mage's staff.

"Aveline!" Merrill called out to her. "Come with us. We need your help!"

The redhead met her gaze and frowned. She exchanged a few brief words with the soldiers that were with her, and then ran after them to catch up.

"What's going on, Merrill?" Aveline hissed once she was close enough to be heard. "And what in Andraste's name is Hawke thinking? He may as well hang an 'apostate' sign around his neck!"

"I don't know," Merrill admitted, trying to remain calm. "I'm not sure what exactly has happened. But I'm pretty sure it's bad."

…

The sun had already begun to set by the time their group managed to find Gamlen. Long, dark, shadows stretched across the city streets, making the area around them feel foreboding and suspect. There was a chill in the air, and perhaps because of it, Lowtown was mostly empty.

The place where they found Gamlen—right at the edge of the Darktown passage—was all but abandoned. Only the old man, and a mousy boy with brown hair and an overbite, could be seen in the torchlight that led to the Underground. Gamlen seemed to be beside himself, yelling at the child, and waving his hands about in the air.

"Uncle," Hawke said as they approached.

Gamlen spun about to face him. "Thank the Maker, you're _finally_ here," the old man snarled.

The boy he was talking to eyed their group warily. Merrill could tell by his threadbare clothes and the hollows of his cheeks that the child was an urchin. He felt her eyes on him, and shot her a petulant look.

"Somebody please explain what is going on," Aveline demanded, stepping forward.

Hawke's uncle ignored her, still speaking to his nephew alone. "This brat knows something!" the old man said. "But he won't open his miserable mouth!"

Without a word, Hawke lifted his hand. Merrill felt the air twist around him, and then the boy was hurled backwards off his feet, thrown full force into the stone wall behind him by Hawke's concentrated Mindblast.

"Hawke!" Aveline yelped, grabbing the man's forearm. "Such excessive force is not necessary to—"

Hawke shook off her hand, and strode up to where the boy was struggling to rise.

Marro was already circling the child, fangs beared. The boy cowered away from the war-dog's teeth, clinging to the wall as he pulled himself up onto shaking legs. Hawke did the work for him—grabbing the boy by his collar, and lifting him a good two feet into the air.

"You saw my mother?" Hawke asked, his voice low.

"I-I dunno jack about your _mother_ ," the boy mumbled, eyes flashing about as he tried to avoid Hawke's intimidating scowl, "But I saw a lady. I think s-she might've been an Amell, like 'e asked for." The boy jerked his head towards Gamlen. "She was wearing the ol' crest."

"Where was she headed?" Hawke demanded. "Who was she with?"

"I-I dunno where they was headed," the boy frowned.

Hawke's grip tightened on the boy's shirt, and the urchin gulped. "T-the man," the boy continued, grasping for some scrap of information that might get him out of trouble. "Uhh… 'e was t-tallish. And 'e had…um…hair?"

"Do not make me kill you," Hawke said, his eye narrowed.

"Hawke!" Aveline yelled.

The boy squirmed in Hawke's grip. "'E looked injured," the boy yipped. His fear seemed to clear his memory. "The man did! 'E was bleeding! She didn't seem like she knew who 'e was, but I saw 'er help him."

"Leandra did?" Gamlen scoffed.

The old man didn't seem like he believed the boy, and Merrill thought she understood why. Hawke's mother had been more or less catatonic since Carver had died. She almost never left the house, so far as Merrill knew, and when she did, either Gamlen or her remaining son was always with her. It was difficult to imagine the frail woman finding herself in a situation where she would be alone in the city, much less in the presence of mind to offer a stranger aid.

"She did, I swear!" the boy insisted. "I'm rememberin' better now, and they went…" he paused, craning his pinned neck to look neck up and down the alley. "They went that way." He pointed away from Darktown, and off toward the docks. "I think."

Hawke whistled, and Marro snapped to attention. With nothing more than a nod from his master, the mabari ran off in the direction the boy had indicated. It wasn't long before Merrill and the rest of them heard the beast's confirmatory bark.

The boy fell into an unceremonious heap at Hawke's feet when the man released him. The child was up and scrambling away into the Underground's tunnel faster than Merrill would have believed, but Hawke didn't seem to care.

Instead he went after Marro, and they all followed in the growing gloom. The dog had stopped along the edge of the cobblestone path, his black nose pointed at several drops of crimson on the grey stone. Hawke knelt to examine them, his expression dark.

"Is that blood there?" Gamlen asked, stretching his neck over his nephew's shoulders to see.

"I don't like this," Hawke said, rising back to his feet. He turned to his uncle. "Go home."

"But—"

"Now." Hawke's voice didn't rise, but there was an edge to it that made Gamlen flinch. Merrill's own heartbeat was racing, and beside her she could see dread on Isabela and Aveline's faces too.

"Fine," Gamlen muttered, seeming to pick up on the party's mood. "But if Leandra's been hurt, I hope you show the bastard no mercy."

The vein in Hawke's neck twitched, and he spun on his heel, leaving them in the dusk.

Merrill heard Isabela grumble under her breath, "I don't think you'll have to worry about that."


	12. Chapter 12

Marro followed the scent of blood to the door of an old foundry along the waterfront. The factory's windows were boarded up, and dust layered the splintering steps so heavily that even Merrill noticed the two distinct sets of footprints making their way up the stair.

There was no sign that anyone had left the building. At least not by this door.

Nobody said anything as Hawke forced the rotten wood ajar.

The large warehouse was dark, and covered in more dust. Cobwebs clung to the rusted machinery. Merrill followed her friends into the crumbling room, holding her scarf over her mouth to stifle a cough.

No sooner had they all entered then the door behind them creaked shut. Something was not right. The air was too thin here; Merrill felt much too close to the Fade.

The thought had barely finished forming in her mind before she felt the Veil rip. Demons of rage and envy surged from the earth around them—one manifesting so close that it almost knocked her from her feet.

From somewhere she heard Hawke's rallying cry, but her instincts had already kicked in. She fought for her life. She was limited without her staff, but she used what power she could to Blast the demons away from her, and to Dispel any magic the creatures summoned of their own.

At some point Isabela appeared like a shadow behind her back, and one by one, the demons were cut down.

With a roar, the last fiery rage demon fell, and then it was just the four of them again, panting and gasping in the empty room.

" _Fenedhis,_ " Merrill swore, clutching her head. Using magic without a staff to serve as a foci was a huge strain. She took deep breaths, trying to ease the ache behind her eyes, and return her heartbeat to normal.

"What was that?" Isabela asked. The pirate seemed hesitant to put away her blades. Aveline was still guarded as well, her shield half raised.

Hawke appeared disturbed, and instead of answering, began to search the room. From somewhere farther on, Marro yipped for their attention.

"We don't have time to delay here," Hawke told them, rushing to follow after the dog.

"I have a bad feeling about this…" Isabela said, as he hastened away.

Aveline nodded. "Hawke's right; we should hurry. Are you okay, Merrill?"

The elf nodded, not wanting to slow them down. "I'll be fine. I'm worried about Leandra."

Shaking the last of the pain from her head, she lead the way deeper into the warehouse.

It turned out that Marro had discovered a concealed compartment in the floor in one of the back rooms. Pulling the trapdoor open revealed the wooden rungs of an old ladder, descending into pitch black.

There was more blood on the first handrail.

Not hesitating, Hawke swung himself down into the dark. "Stay," he told Marro.

The mabari sat obediently on its heels at the edge of the opening, but not without emitting a loud whine.

Merrill slid down the ladder after Hawke.

The room it brought them to was almost as large as the one above, but even more dank. If not for the torchlight that flickered somewhere down the long hallway, she would not have been able to see anything at all.

The Veil was even thinner here, although it hardly seemed possible. As Aveline and Isabela climbed down behind her, Merrill stumbled through the darkness to where Hawke was crouched. A soft light from his staff illuminated something on the ground

"What is that, Hawke?" she asked him.

"My mother's locket," he said. She looked closer and could see the glimmer of an oval pendant and silver chain. She thought she saw portraits of Hawke's siblings' faces before he snapped the locket shut.

He slipped the necklace into the folds of his cloak before standing, and continuing down the hallway where torchlight glowed. "She would not willingly part with it," he said, his voice low.

As they continued, more demons sprang up to block their path, but Hawke cut through them, more or less without aid. The women tried to assist him, but it was almost as though he'd forgotten they were there.

He didn't speak again until they entered a large room at the end of the path. It turned out that the light Merrill had taken to belong to a torch was actually a roaring fire set up in a large underground hearth.

"What is all this?" Isabela grimaced, poking around. Dirty and disgusting as it was, the room seemed to have been arranged into some sort of makeshift living space. There was a table, and a few moldy chairs. Stacks of papers and notebooks littered the whole room, all written in the same unintelligible scrawl. There were also invasive drawings of the human body mixed in that made a cold sweat rise on Merrill's spine.

A moth-eaten daybed in the far corner of the room caught her attention, and she edged towards it, fearful. A woman lay there, her face pointed towards the wall, her skin the faded blue color of death.

Heart pounding in her throat, Merrill tilted the woman's chin to look at her face. She released a sigh of relief when the corpse's neck wouldn't turn. Rigor mortis had set in, which meant that the body had been dead for too long. It wasn't Leandra.

Still, Merrill realized with a shock, she actually did recognize the woman's face. It was the girl that she'd bumped into back at the manor in Hightown where she'd followed Hawke. The girl's expression was frozen in the same look of panic she had worn that night.

Merrill frowned, and her gaze ran over the rest of the girl's body. She noticed, with a great amount of unease, that the woman's hands had been severed at the wrists.

"Hawke," she said, beginning to call the man over.

But Aveline called his name at the same time.

The redhead was standing before the giant hearth, examining a painting on the stone mantle that Merrill hadn't noticed. The art was life-sized, and had obviously been done by a master's hand. Candles and dried flowers had been arranged around the painting, along with more anatomical sketches and notes. The scene struck Merrill to be some sort of perverse shrine.

"The woman in this portrait…" Aveline asked, as Hawke moved closer. "Is that your mother?"

Hawke looked up at the painting for a long moment, and then away sharply. "No."

"But she looks so much like her…" Merrill said, joining them.

Not acknowledging her words, Hawke left the firelight, heading towards a door on the left-hand wall that Merrill also had not seen.

Merrill, Aveline and Isabela exchanged anxious glances before chasing after him again.

Hawke stopped so suddenly in the next room that Merrill ran into his back.

"S-sorry," she mumbled, edging away.

The man didn't respond, and Merrill peered around him, following his gaze.

The space they'd entered was long and rectangular. Large braziers hung on the walls, lighting the area better than in the other rooms. It was a dead end. There were no doors leading off in any other directions.

Instead, along the far wall was a antique sofa. A man sat there, talking happily to a woman dressed in white.

Merrill's breath caught in her throat, and her hands flew unconsciously to cover her mouth.

The woman bore Hawke's mother's face, but even from across the room Merrill could see the jagged stitching the held the skin in place. Similar scars ringed the woman's pale wrists. Merrill's mind flashed to the severed hands of the corpse in the last room, and she fought the sudden urge to wretch.

"That can't be—" she started.

Hawke lunged forward, not waiting to hear her words. His movement caught the attention of the man on the other side of the room, and he rose from his seat, throwing his arms wide. "My dear, we have guests!" he said. His voice sounded euphoric as he addressed the abomination beside him. He was mad.

As Hawke launched a fireball at the man, the creature still seated on the couch made a noise that caused tears to rise behind Merrill's eyes. Whatever else the woman was, she was clearly in pain.

Hawke's furious flame ricocheted off an invisible barrier, and Merrill understood that the madman must be a mage. A bloodmage. And the worst possible sort.

"Maker have mercy," Aveline whimpered. The elf became aware that the other two women had come to stand beside her. Isabela was speechless, her mouth hanging open.

The man wagged a finger in Hawke's direction. "That's not very nice. My new wife and I were having a lovely chat. It's rude for another man to interrupt."

"She's not your wife," Hawke snarled. Lightning sprang from his fingertips, crashing against the bloodmage's wall.

The mage scowled, his eyes rolling in his head. "Yes she is! Yes she is! She is mine, and we are very much in love. Isn't that right, dearest?" The man asked the corpse. "Even death could not keep us apart. I told you I would resurrect you. It took forever to collect the correct parts, but now here you are! And you are perfect."

The body's head lolled against its chest, and she made that noise again that made Merrill's heart ache.

"You are a dead man," Hawke threatened, using his staff to double the strength of his shocks.

The force of the strikes shook the building at its foundations, and the bloodmage's eyes grew wide. "You would separate us?" he screamed. "I will not let you take my wife from me!"

Merrill watched in horror as the man pulled a small blade from his belt, and gouged the steel into the skin of his own forearm. The room seemed to spin as the already thin Veil was ripped asunder.

Demons poured across the divide, drawn through the tear by the pungent smell of fresh blood.

The fight that began then was a frenzy. Merrill lost track of Aveline and Isabela in the fray, her mind focused only on trying to reach Hawke.

Demons tore at her legs and arms, and she defended wildly, hurling so much raw magic that before long she could hardly even see for the headache that blinded her.

Without warning she came upon her target in the scuffle. Hawke stood in the same spot he had been, still trying to force the bloodmage's barrier down. Demons surged around him though, and the man's attention was split between the wall and the effort of propelling Mindblast after blast to keep the monsters at bay.

Merrill forced her way through to his side. Wordlessly, she grabbed onto his cloak, letting him know she was there, and then began firing stunning blasts of her own.

Hawke caught on to her intentions quickly, and put his full focus into tearing down the mage's wall. The bloodmage seemed to notice the power shift because Merrill heard his panicked scream rise above the chaos.

"Can a mage like you truly not see the majesty in what I have done?!" the madman wailed. "I have surpassed the laws of life and death! I've matched the Maker himself! I have—"

"You have murdered my mother!" Hawke roared. Heat suddenly poured off of his skin, burning so white hot that Merrill jerked back her hand. A wave of magic unlike anything she had ever felt surged from his body. The force tore through her, and all of the demons in their vicinity exploded into flares of yellow light.

"Hawke?" Merrill yelped.

The man's bandaged eye was radiating the same strange light. Bright yellow fire coursed across his skin. He seemed more powerful and dangerous than she'd ever seen him.

The bloodmage sputtered, "Her death was necessary to—"

"SHUT UP!"

Giant golden arms manifested in the thin air before the bloodmage's barrier. The colossal limbs were translucent, scaled, and armed with vicious looking claws that dug straight into the invisible shield. Hawke groaned through gritted teeth, using his own arms to control the giant pair he had summoned.

There was a wretched tearing sound, and then the barrier fell.

The golden arms disappeared, and for a split second so did Hawke. He materialized in a flourish right before the madman's face, having Fadestepped closer before the other mage could reestablish his guard.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but then Hawke's hand was on his skin and the bloodmage burst, screaming, into fluorescent citron flames. The few demons that had remained after Hawke's initial burst were banished back to the Fade as their summoner lost the will to hold them.

Hawke let the writhing man fall, his glowing yellow gaze fixated on the maniac's face as he died.

Merrill felt her legs giving out beneath her. "Hawke," she called, struggling through her fatigue. The pieced together corpse had risen from its seat on the sofa, and was making its way in jolted, uneven steps towards where he stood.

Whatever terrible magic was holding the woman together would not last much longer without the bloodmage to control it.

Hawke turned at Merrill's voice, the yellow light receding from his eyes. He saw the woman straining to reach him, and ran the last few steps between them to catch her as she fell. He let the weight of the other body pull him down, and dropped to his knees, cradling his mother in his arms.

The creature lay there peacefully, drawing ragged breaths. Merrill watched it raise one of its sutured hands to touch his cheek.

She struggled to join them, trying to push away the pain in her head. "Maybe it's not too late," the elf said as she came closer. "Maybe you can—"

"Leave us," Hawke said. His gaze did not stray from his mother's face.

"But—"

"Go."

Merrill froze. That was not Hawke's voice. It was deep, and rough, like she was used to, but there was no way the man she knew would ever cry.

"Hawke—"

A strong arm pulled her own over its shoulder, and she found herself being hauled away. "Stop, Aveline!" Merrill begged. She tried to resist the other woman's efforts to move her, but found that her body was leeched of strength. "He needs us," she pleaded.

"He needs space," Isabela said, sticking close to her other side. "Trust me."

"Give them privacy, Merrill," Aveline told her, the warrior's own voice breaking. "T-there's nothing more we can do."

"But I don't want to leave him," Merrill insisted.

"You think he wants your company?" Isabela snapped. "Did you see him just now? I think he'd murder us all if we stayed."

"For once, I agree with Isabela," Aveline said sadly.

Merrill didn't have the strength to resist them, but she strained her neck to look over her shoulder before they could lead her out of sight.

Hawke sat with his mother still in his arms. They seemed to be speaking quietly to each other, and Merrill would have killed to know what was being said. Just before the door closed, she saw the man bend forward, pressing the woman's forehead to his own.

Merrill didn't think it was just the motion of being carried that made his shoulders seem to shake.

"You're wrong," she murmured, letting her own tears fall.


	13. Chapter 13

The elf wasn't sure what she'd find when she ventured to Hawke's estate the next day. The weather all that morning had been gloomy—as if sharing in the despair of the events the night past.

Merrill hadn't been certain that she was even brave enough to make the long trek up to Hightown, but somehow her feet had led her to Hawke's door. She stood on the stoop with one arm raised, willing herself the courage to knock.

No one responded. Feeling foolish, she decided to leave, but not before trying the door's metal knob on a whim.

To her surprise, the bolt was unlocked.

"…Hello?" she called out. Timid, she pushed the door open a crack.

The inside of the manor was quiet and dark. No fire burned in the grand hearth, and the chandelier had not been lit. The home itself was a mess.

Broken glass from vases and urns littered the floor. Legs had been ripped from the wooden chairs near the foot of the staircase, and Hawke's writing desk had been split clean in half.

Merrill noted with some relief that none of the portraits of Hawke's ancestors had been damaged by his rage.

The door to the pantry however, was open and the room in an equal state of disrepair. Bodahn and Sandal were nowhere to be seen. She hoped that Hawke had not frightened the father and son so badly that they would leave him for good. She didn't think he should live in the home all by himself….

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Merrill began to climb the stairs slowly towards Hawke's quarters. She had never been in this part of the estate before, and was anxious for more reasons than one.

There were several doors on the landing, but one of them was slightly ajar, and through is she could make out the gentle crackling of flames.

She pressed her fingertips against it, nudging the door ajar.

"Hawke?" she murmured, stepping inside.

A magnificent bed—not unlike the one in the other Hightown manor—took up the middle of the room, and the wall on the right was lined with even more books. A fireplace that was only a tad bit smaller than the one on the main floor filled the left wall.

Hawke stood before the hearth, and did not turn away from the flickering blaze when Merrill called his name. He wore only his breeches and the covering over his eye, and the elf looked away sharply, her cheeks red.

Her reaction had not sparred her sight of the beautiful arch of his back, nor the way the firelight seemed to gleam against his ivory skin.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. "I should have knocked! How rude of me! I—"

"Why are you here, Merrill?" Hawke asked, still not turning around. His voice sounded weary. The elf forgot her embarrassment as she listened to his words, and remembered why she had come.

She wrung her hands together, unsure of exactly what to say. "I wanted to check on you…" she told him after a moment. "I was worried."

"I don't need your pity," he mumbled to the flames.

"It's not pity," she assured him, taking a shy step closer. "I… I'm your friend, Hawke," she said. "I care about you."

"I don't want friends," the man scoffed.

Merrill smiled sadly. "Everyone wants friends," she told him. "Even if it's just a few."

Hawke lifted his chin up towards the ceiling. His eye was closed. "Friends are just more people to lose," he told her.

The thoughts he expressed felt so familiar to her that she almost wanted to laugh. She satisfied the urge with a smirk he didn't see, and said, "Well, I guess I sort of agree. In a way. It's the same thing I tell myself at least… when I'm feeling particularly alone."

Hawke's head tilted towards her at that, his golden eye sliding over her for the first time since she'd entered the room. The look he gave felt appraising, and she shied away from it, feeling oddly exposed.

"I'm sorry again," she mumbled, her own eyes dropping to the lacquered floor. "You don't want to hear my rambling, and I didn't mean to lecture. I just wanted to come by and say that I am so very sorry for your loss."

She ducked her head slightly, and then stole a cautious look at his face. " _Ir abelas, me'falon_ ," she said. "Your mother was a wonderful woman; what happened to her was cruel and unfair."

Hawke returned his gaze to the fire. "Merrill."

She straightened, anxious. "Yes?"

The man kept his back to her, but his voice was soft. "Thank you," he said.

Heat rose again in Merrill's cheeks, and she flashed a bashful smile before retreating out the door.

…

Isabela didn't know what to make of Hawke's front door being left wide open. The oversight was unlike him, or his housekeeper—no matter what sort of temper they were in.

Guarded, she stepped over the threshold and into the front hall. Looking at the wreckage of scenery around her, she began to feel like coming to the estate had been a huge mistake. Hawke had nearly strangled her the last time she'd tried to consol him. Did she really think that anything would be different now?

She kicked a chair leg across the room, frustrated with herself.

This self-doubt was unlike her. It was _infantile_ to still be moping over a man who had not so much as looked at her in three years. She'd never had trouble moving on from any of the rest of them; there was no reason that Hawke should be different. Especially when he'd been so clear about his feelings.

The pirate was considering the option to flee when she heard a door open and close at the top of the stairs. She hesitated and the palms of her hands grew damp.

Instead of the man she'd expected though, it was Merrill who made her way down the steps. The elf's face was bright red, and she was smiling in a way that made Isabela's stomach churn. "You?" that pirate said, not entirely meaning to speak.

The elf looked up at her voice, her emerald eyes wide. "Hm?" The girl had not even noticed her—so lost was she in her own little fantasy world.

Isabela started to make some sort of jeering remark, but then Hawke appeared on the landing as well. The man was only partially dressed, still pulling his navy tunic down over his head. The pirate's heart skipped a beat. "Him?"

Merrill looked back over her shoulder, saw the half-naked man behind her and turned maroon. "Hawke!" she yelped, embarrassed.

Isabela's head was spinning. There was no way. There could be no way this was happening. Hawke would never have looked twice at a girl like Merrill before the Deep Roads. She'd have been too foolish, too naïve. He'd have been bored with her in minutes; the elf would have hardly even served as a toy! "This is…" Isabela trailed off, taking an unconscious step back.

"What do you want, Isabela?" Hawke asked. His voice was flat—like _her_ presence was the one he found mundane!

"Nothing," she snapped. She spun around, and started in quick strides towards the door. "It's nothing. Forget I was here."

"Stop," Hawke commanded. Her steps faltered and, despite her tumultuous emotions, she came to a halt just at the edge of the room.

Hawke continued down the stairs, saying to the elf as he passed her on the steps, "Merrill, please leave us."

The girl's eyes darted between the two of them. "Oh… okay," she said softly.

The elf tried to catch Isabela's eyes as she passed her in the doorway, but Isabela ignored Merrill, keeping her gaze on the floor. There was the muffled click of the front door latch, and then Hawke and her were alone.

Hawke stopped just at the foot of the staircase, his arms crossed. "…Why have you come?" he repeated.

"I already said it doesn't matter," she said coolly, folding her arms together too. They could both play this game.

"And that was a lie," the man said.

Isabela's temper flashed. "Stop pretending like you know what I'm thinking," she demanded. "You haven't ever been _that_ smart."

Hawke said nothing, his eye still focused on her face. The weighted gaze was maddening. "Am I allowed to leave now?" she hissed.

Still he didn't speak.

"Is staring a yes or a no?" she called. "If you just wanted to stand there like a mute, you shouldn't have made me wait."

The man sighed, but finally dropped his eye. Isabela realized her hands were shaking, and balled them into fist beneath her elbows to that he wouldn't notice. "I'm so sick of you, Hawke," she growled. "Looking down on me from your high seat with your big head. you didn't use to be so much of a prick."

The words came easily, but then she paused, feeling a fair deal of regret. The image of Hawke's dying mother flickered through her mind, and she wonder why with him her actions and intentions always became so confused.

"I'm sorry," she muttered.

He sat down onto the bottom step, resting his elbows on his knees. "Why?" he asked, sounding tired. "You're being honest."

"And that's all you care about now, isn't it," she grumbled under her breath. Louder, she told him, "I came her to give my condolences for you mother. And that's all."

"Is it?"

"Yes," she snapped. "And since it looks like you've already been consoled, I will take my leave."

"You're angry with Merrill?" he asked, delaying her exit again.

"I'm not angry with anyone!"

Hawke raised a pointed eyebrow at her elevated tone.

Isabela threw her hands in the air. "I honestly don't care," she scowled. "What you and she do together has nothing to do with me."

Hawke frowned. "…There's nothing between her and me," he said.

The pirate barked out a laugh. "Now who's the one that's lying?"

The man looked like he was about to respond, but the sound of the front door opening interrupted them. Hawke's housekeeper took several steps inside, noticed them in the main room, and then with wide eyes appeared to take in the damaged house for the first time. The dwarf's son came in the room just a pace or two behind his father. The savant was nursing a lollypop, blissfully unaware of the scene they'd just entered.

"Sandal and I are back with the post…" Bodahn announced to Hawke, his tone bewildered. "And I accompanied Gamlen to the Chantry. Just as you asked. I see you've done some redecorating, serah?"

The man ignored the dwarf's query about the state of the home. "Did any letters look important?" Hawke asked, rising back to his feet.

"Ah…" Bodahn glanced at Isabela, who was still chewing on her frustration, before saying, "Well. You have another message from the Viscount."

The dwarf pulled a sealed parchment envelope from the stack of papers that he carried. "I didn't read it, but the man who handed it to me said it was urgent."

Isabela clicked her tongue as Hawke crossed over to his attendant. Once he'd passed along the note, Bodahn dipped a quick bow in her direction, and then followed his son into the kitchen. The pirate heard his stifled exclamation at the mess there, and scoffed.

If Hawke heard the dwarf's displeasure, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead he broke the wax seal on the parchment, and read the notice. When he was done, he generated a spark between his fingertips, and set the notice aflame.

"What is it?" Isabela asked, unable to completely stifle her curiosity.

"Babysitting."

Hawke returned to the staircase. "Bodahn," he called.

"Yes?" came the manservant's exasperated reply.

"Summon Fenris and Anders for me. Tell the to meet me at the Keep."

"As you will," the dwarf sighed.

"You're not taking _Merrill_ with you?" Isabela taunted, as the man started up the stairs to finish getting dressed.

"No."

Isabela took a couple steps back into the main room. "She not good with kids?" the pirate teased.

Hawke paused on the stairs. "She's working on something else," he told her.

"Don't tell me you mean that stupid mirror?" Isabela sneered. "You know she's had that thing since you went underground? _Three years_ , and the Fade-blasted piece of garbage is _still_ useless."

The man didn't answer, and Isabela wondered if she'd maybe found a way under his skin.

"Can you really stand there and say you feel nothing for her," she pressed, "when you show her such patience, and to the rest of us you're a complete monster?"

Hawke turned to face her, his expression cold. "There _is_ nothing going on between her and me. There can be nothing."

The pirate's heart began to pound, and she chased him up onto the landing. "Those are two very different claims," she said, cutting him off.

He glared at her, but she didn't care. For some reason it was critically important to her that the man continue to explain. "Which one do you actually mean?"

His expression clouded even further, and then he looked away. "I _am_ a monster, Isabela," Hawke acknowledged. "And Merrill is in enough danger already."

Isabela's jaw worked as he brushed past her. That wasn't a real explanation… was it? Which answer had he just confirmed?

"Varric's been taking care of some issue that's come up at Bartrand's old estate," Hawke grumbled, changing the subject. "Will you be coming with me when I go to to meet the Viscount? Or will I have to tolerate Sebastian?"

Isabela bit the inside of her cheek. "...Are you sure it's smart for you to take care of this _today_?" she muttered. "Don't you want to mourn?"

"I have mourned," he told her. "And now I want to be out of this house."


	14. Chapter 14

Isabela went with Hawke, but very quickly found herself regretting the decision. "Babysitting" turned out to mean that the Viscount's son, Saemus, had run off again to the Qunari—this time to convert to their religion permanently. When Hawke announced that they would speak to the Arishok on the Viscount's behalf, she had needed to do some quick thinking to avoid finding herself at the angry oxman's feet.

As it was, she was not entirely sure Hawke had bought her charade, but he hadn't forced her into the compound, and they'd been busy enough since that he'd not the time to berate her if he thought she'd lied.

"Do you see, Your Grace?!"

Isabela looked up from the rabble around her, eyes locking on the sharp-faced Mother who was accompanying the Grand Cleric down the Chantry's opulent staircase.

"Traitors attacking the very core of the Chantry! They defile it with every step!"

Isabela glanced at the blades in her hands—still red with the blood of peasants she hadn't wanted to kill. Anders, Fenris and Hawke were similarly disposed, surrounded by the corpses of untrained rioters, who had all but thrown themselves on their swords.

Their search for the Viscount's son _had_ led them to the sanctuary's door, but the boy had been dead when they'd arrived! The rest of the bodies were extremists that had been waiting in the wings. They'd probably been the ones who'd murdered Saemus in the first place!

Venom rose in Isabela's throat at the injustice of the Mother's accusation. She began to snap back a response, but Hawke held his hand up to silence her, his gaze trained on Grand Cleric Elthina's face.

"There is death in every corner, young Mother," the wizened apostle murmured. The Grand Cleric was a soft-spoken woman, but there was a power in her that Isabela noticed the moment the old woman's eyes passed over her own.

The pirate had never held much love for the Andrastian Church, but this Cleric seemed to be something different than what she had come to expect.

"It is as you predicted," the Grand Cleric continued, turning to the priestess beside her. "All _too_ well."

As the women neared the base of the stairwell, Hawke took a bold step forward. The younger of the two flinched away.

"This scene is not as it seems, Elthina," Hawke said. His tone was clear and he spoke directly to the Grand Cleric herself, as if he were certain that she would hear out his explanation. Were she in a better mood, Isabela might have been tempted to grin. It was just like Hawke to refrain from using titles—even when addressing the highest ranking church official in the Free Marshes.

The corrupt Mother beside the Grand Cleric noticed the lapse as well, and handled it with considerably less humor. Her face twisted in disgust.

"Don't you spout your Qunari filth!" the woman spat at Hawke. "You are addressing the Hand of the Divine!"

Isabela wished she could just kill the bitch and have it done.

"I have ears, Mother Petrice," the Grand Cleric said however, firmly cutting off the woman's outcry. "The Maker would have me use them."

The woman named Petrice scowled and lowered her gaze. Her boney fingers knotted themselves in her skirts, as if she wished to strangle something.

The Grand Cleric ignored her sulking, and turned her attention back to their group. Her clear eyes searched Hawke's face. "You are the young Master Hawke, are you not?" she said, after a moment. "I have not seen you amongst our congregation, but I have heard of your heroics from Sebastian… and Leandra."

Hawke's jaw clenched at the mention of his mother's name, and the elderly woman seemed to notice, her expression softening. "Word has reached me of her passing. Gamlen lit a candle here for her this very morning. He would not speak of what occurred, but his sorrow was evident… It is true then, that she has gone to her place at the Maker's side?"

"She has rejoined her family," Hawke responded. His voice sounded hollow and curt.

"Perhaps…" Elthina murmured, "But she has left one beloved member behind. You should know, dear child, that when she could will herself to speak, her words were all for you."

Isabela's chest constricted at this sentiment, and she watched Hawke's face, wondering how he would react. He said nothing, but fidgeted on his feet, obviously uncomfortable. She fought against the urge to touch him.

"I am saddened that Kirkwall has fallen into such a pitiable state that a son is not allowed even a full day to mourn his parent's passing before he is called back into the streets," the Grand Cleric sighed. "What has dragged you from your grief, my child? Why do you stand before the alter of Andraste wielding a bloody spear?"

Hawke cleared his throat, his gaze not leaving hers. "Viscount Dumar's son is dead," he told her. "Murdered here in your name."

"…I'm sure my name won't like that," Elthina said. Her voice had grown cool. "What say you to this, Petrice?"

The young Mother blanched. "Saemus Dumar was a Qunari convert," she sputtered. "He came here to repent, and was murdered!"

"By _you_ ," Isabela hissed, ignoring Hawke's warning glare.

Petrice reeled at the accusation. "People are leaving us to join them!" she wailed, grabbing at the Grand Cleric's sleeve. "They deny the Maker!"

"And you diminish him," Elthina responded, brushing the woman's hands from her arm. "Even as you claim his side. Andraste did _not_ volunteer for the flame."

Petrice stumbled back as if she'd been slapped.

"Serah Hawke," Elthina continued, "I am aggrieved for your loss, and sincerely apologetic that these affairs have taken your attention away from that which is truly important. Young Mother Petrice has erred irreparably in her judgment. A court shall have to determine her fate."

She turned to go back up the stairs without another word.

"Grand Cleric?" Petrice wailed after her back.

But Elthina did not turn around. Not even has Hawke raised the bladed end of his staff to the side of the other woman's neck.

"How do you plea?" he muttered.

The Mother started to scream, but the slick whistle of steel cut off the sound. Hawke wiped clean the darkened blade as the new corpse fell.

"…Aveline would have wanted her alive," Anders said, moving to stand beside the other mage.

"I wanted her dead," Hawke told him, reaffixing his staff to his shoulder. "And the Arishok would have taken her head long before she saw a trial."

"By their laws," Fenris said, agreeing with Hawke, "Saemus' conversion was complete. Even if it was only briefly, he was a true follower of the Qun. The Qunari will see Petrice's actions as another murder of one of their own."

"So…" Isabela mumbled, "what does that mean for Kirkwall?"

"War," the lyrium-scarred elf said, his expression hard.

Anders frowned. "You think it's inevitable?"

"It is," Fenris said. "Petrice is dead now, but that won't be enough to sate the Arishok's desire to avenge his fallen. Not anymore. He only _just_ forgave the slaughtered patrol."

Isabela scowled, and her narrowed eyes dropped to the ground. This was bad. She needed to be long gone before the fighting started. Blast that useless Wall-eyed Sam. He had promised her information ages ago!

"What's more," Fenris was saying, unaware of her distraction, "Viscount Dumar is no lead-boned leader. When he finds out his son has been slain, he'll be ruined—unable to hold the anti-Qunari factions in check. When the Arishok moves, the extremists will revolt in earnest."

"And if _that_ happens?" Anders asked.

"This city will burn," Hawke growled.

Anders' expression darkened, and he lifted his hands. "Are we content to just let that play out? Is there truly _nothing_ we can do to stop it?"

"Not while the Qunari remain in the city," Fenris shrugged.

The blond mage raced his fingers through his hair. "I don't understand. They hate it here. Why won't the just leave?"

"Because of what they seek," Fenris explained. "The Tome of Koslun is their most holy text. They will _never_ leave this city while they believe it still remains."

"What sort of idiot thief would steal a book like that?" Anders grumbled.

Isabela felt anger and shame burble in her stomach, and fought against the urge to look back at the floor. Defending the theft would raise suspicion, and she had to avoid that more than anything—especially since Hawke was present.

She could feel the man's stare on her anyway, and she refocused on Fenris and Anders' discussion so that she wouldn't accidentally look at him.

The elf unknowingly defended the matter in her stead. "The book would be worth an amazing amount of gold to the Tevinter Imperium..."

Anders scoffed. "Only if the culprit could make it past the Qunari embargo to actually _reach_ Tevinter,"

"There is that," Fenris admitted, resting a finger beneath his chin as he thought. "So long as they have not, there is some hope that peace may yet be restored."

"You mean if we were to recover the Tome?" Anders asked, eyeing him.

"We should not waste any more effort on this," Hawke interrupted, turning towards the Chantry door.

"Why?" Anders demanded. The other man stopped.

"Because even if the book is in Kirkwall," Hawke drawled, "we have no way to find it."

"You wouldn't even try?"

The man said nothing and Anders seemed to interpret that as an opening. "Hawke," he pressed. "If we do nothing, people will die,"

"They may all die anyway," Hawke retorted. "And that will not be on my conscience."

"How can you say that?" Anders snapped.

"Because he isn't human," Fenris snarled, equally annoyed. "He doesn't care."

Hawke met their angry stares with his own golden fire. "It is not my job to solve a problem I didn't cause. If the person actually responsible for this mess feels _no_ remorse for what their greed has led to, then they are far more a monster than I."

The other two men chased him after that, still shouting their complaints—but Isabela remained frozen to the spot, her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

Hawke's eye had flashed to her face right before he'd said those words.

Somehow… he knew.


	15. Chapter 15

The news struck the city like lightning.

Viscount Dumar had come to the Chantry to collect his son's body, and was so overcome with grief that his guards had ended up carrying both father and son back to the Keep. That sort of weakness couldn't stay hidden in a city like Kirkwall. Like dogs, the citizens could smell it. They swarmed around the procession, filling the air with gossip as thick as smoke.

By morning it was as if the whole place had come to a grinding halt.

Stores were closed with no reason given, and children were kept inside. The streets of Lowtown were nearly abandoned until Isabela reached the docks, and then she could hardly even move for the number of armed patrols the oxmen had stationed around their camp.

They glared and snarled at anything that came within twenty paces, and not even the city's feral strays dared to venture any closer than that.

It made the going slow, but Isabela took great care to avoid the Qunari guards as best she could.

She didn't think they could _all_ know her face, but it would only take one to shout out in recognition, and then everything she'd worked for would come crashing down on her head.

The pirate kept her eyes on the dirt has she slunk through the shadows along the waterway. Every so often she tugged at her cloak to make sure her daggers were still concealed.

If Sam didn't check in with her that day, she would have to flee. The odds were terrible for Kirkwall if the Qunari dreadnaughts began a siege. She'd seen firsthand the devastation a single warship was capable of. Even a weatherworn fleet would be a reckoning.

And if the Qunari successfully laid waste to the Keep, nobody would be able to prevent them from razing the whole city trying to find her.

Maybe Hawke… No.

She stopped herself mid-thought. She couldn't go to Hawke for protection. She'd decide that long ago, and besides, did she really think the backing of _one_ man would make any measurable difference against the entire Qunari Nation?

If Wall-Eyed Sam didn't show, she would hide, and return to search the wreckage once the ravaging had subsided.

Checking to make sure that no one was around, Isabela hauled open a grate in an alley by the ship storehouses. She slid down into the dark.

The tunnel opened into the musty light of Rat Town. There were a few miscreants in the bellows of the city with her, but nobody spoke, or made eye contact, and she darted straight for the meeting place.

The marker was a specific slab of stone on one of the back walls. It had a Rivani sigil traced, in what might have been blood, on its corner. If Sam had information for her he would have left a message there.

She double-checked to be sure no one was watching, and then lifted the heavy rock.

A sweat had risen on her skin that wasn't from exertion. Her hands were shaking, making it difficult for her to keep a firm grip.

Trying not to let nerves get the best of her, she peered inside the small hollow she'd revealed.

She almost dropped the stone on her own foot when she saw that there was, in fact, a piece of vellum tucked away for her to find. She snatched at the parchment, clutching it like a lifeline. Sam had written her only six simple words.

 _I have it. Foundry after dark._

Isabela's heartbeat did a back flip, and then puttered to a near hault.

He truly had the tome? Could she even dare to hope? If he actually did, could she trust him to give it to her, and not to sell her out to Castillon _or_ Tevinter?

Her mood sank, and stress began to nip again at the edges of her mind.

No, she couldn't. It was far more likely that he would try to back out of their deal. And if that was true than the whole arrangement to meet at the Foundry was probably a set up.

But she was so close!

Even if it was a trap, she couldn't turn back now!

She had to go.

Silently she replaced the stone, and began her assent back up to the city proper. She would not ask Hawke outright to protect her from the Qunari, but she would use him for this.

…

Aveline beat her to Hawke's estate.

The redhead's green eyes narrowed when Bodahn led Isabela into the front hall, her lips pursed into a hard line.

"Hawke's quite popular these days," Isabela remarked, her voice dry. She didn't want to the other woman present for her and Hawke's interaction. They were both far too dubious. If both Fereldens decided to question her motives she doubted she'd be able to dodge their combined suspicions.

"Don't be stupid," Aveline snapped. "Some of us have far more to think of than the number of men in our beds."

"I imagine that's true when the number is 'zero'," Isabela retorted, not in the mood. "It must help to keep your mind from focusing on all the little bits that have gone frigid."

Aveline's face turned maroon, and Isabela smirked. Her anxiety still gnawed at her, but there was an undeniable release in making the Guard Captain squirm.

"You in-insufferable whore…" Aveline stammered.

"Resorting to name calling already?" Isabela gasped. "Does that mean it's true? Don't fear, love, a big solid prick will break straight through those iced-over pantaloons, I promise—"

"Have you not an ounce of shame?" Aveline bellowed, her cheeks almost purple in rage. "Kirkwall is at _war_ and you have nothing better to do than harass me?!"

"We're not at war yet," Isabela brushed her off.

"Yes, we are, you self-obsessed hussy!" Aveline roared. "The dreadnaughts have left the Wounded Coast! They'll be upon the city by morning!"

Isabela's stomach fell. "Why wouldn't you say that sooner!" she wailed. "I have to talk to Hawke—"

" _I_ have to talk to Hawke!" Aveline shouted over her, "Whatever trouble you've gotten yourself into is not more important than the whole of Kirkwall!"

"The "whole of Kirkwall" can get stuffed up your—!"

"ENOUGH!"

Hawke's voice exploded over their argument, making them both flinch. Isabela hadn't even noticed him entering the room.

Aveline recovered from her shock a half second faster than the pirate. "Hawke, we have a problem."

"Mine first!" Isabela cried, afraid she'd missed her chance.

"There isn't time for this!" Aveline started, shoving her to the side.

Isabela managed to keep her footing and bellowed, "I took it!"

Aveline froze, and Isabela could feel it as both hers and Hawke's eyes settle on her face.

"I took it!" she repeated, finding Hawke's gaze. For the first time in a long time it felt easy to hold. "Okay? Do I have your attention now?"

"What are you talking about?" Aveline mumbled, her eyes wide.

"I took the Tome of Cousland," Isabela told her, not looking away from Hawke. "Koslun. Whatever. I took it. It was me."

"You?!" Aveline gaped.

"Me," the pirate snapped, somewhat pleased with the horror in the Guard Captain's expression. "Me."

"You mean _you're_ the reason the Qunari won't leave?" Aveline continued. " _You're_ the cause of all the rebellion and death Kirkwall has suffered since they arrived?"

"Yes," Isabela said. "I admit it. It's my fault. I stole their stupid book, and now it's come to this."

Hawke still hadn't uttered a word, but she continued to speak to him, not once breaking her line of sight. "You have to understand, I _had_ to take it in order to get Castillon off my back. He was going to kill me if I didn't. This was my freedom; my ticket to getting my life back."

She was surprised how good it felt to own up to the theft. She let the truth tumble from her lips, savoring the weight that seemed to disappear from her shoulders. Perhaps this lightness would make what came later easier to bear.

"You had told me you didn't know what Castillon wanted," Hawke said after a moment, his voice low.

"I guess I lied then," she admitted, not letting her memory flicker back to that far-away, yet intimate, moment. "I guess all this time you've been right about me. Are you happy? Is that what you've wanted to hear?"

"You wicked… selfish… cow!" Aveline spat. The woman was quivering visibly from head to foot. "I swear to the Maker I will—"

"I said 'enough'," Hawke cut in, ending the soldier's oncoming slew of insults before it could spiral out of control. He turned back to Isabela, and she felt a brief surge of gratitude, which she quickly bit back. He didn't care about her feelings, and she wouldn't let herself be tricked into thinking she owed him for a perceived kindness.

"Why are you choosing to tell me about the Tome now?" Hawke asked. His uncovered eyebrow was drawn down. He looked confused, and maybe even a hint surprised, but it didn't seem like he didn't believe her. She was a little sad that he trusted her so easily with this crime, but found dishonesty in nearly everything else that she said. The realization made her regret telling him.

"Yes," Aveline snapped, unable to fully restrain her fury. "Why now?"

"Because I've found it," Isabela said, clutching at her resolve. "After _years_ of searching. But I need help to get it back."

"You mean to say," Aveline hissed. "That you stole it from them, _lost_ it, and now need help to get it back from whoever stole it from you? How incompetent can you _be_?"

Isabela ground her teeth, unable to formulate a response. Irritating as it was, the Guard Captain's summary of events wasn't inaccurate.

"Well, maybe we _could_ have helped fix your mess, if you'd told us earlier," Aveline continued. "But we don't have time anymore. What we should do is offer the Arishok your head on a pike—it might be _nearly_ enough to sate his rage."

"We will go after the Tome," Hawke murmured. His words were so quiet that Isabela didn't believe her ears.

Aveline was stunned as well. "B-but—" she stammered.

"Whatever new ill has befallen the Arishok," Hawke reasoned, "I imagine he will be more ready to reason if we hold the Tome of Koslun in our hands."

The Guard Captain scowled, but couldn't argue with him, and the man turned on his heel to exit the estate.

Isabela felt the soldier's glare return to her, and acted upon the urge to stick her tongue out in the woman's face.

She darted after Hawke before Aveline could throw a punch.


	16. Chapter 16

They made a brief detour to Darktown and—with Anders in tow—headed down to the docks.

The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon as they snuck through the alleys near the Qunari compound. There were still none of Kirkwall's regular civilians to be seen—only the bone-grey oxmen armed to the teeth in spikes and steel. Some fighting must have happened over the course of the day though, because storefronts and slum windows had been smashed, and smoke hung heavy over the charred remains of ships and their cargo.

Aveline had been right; the war had started, and the docks—it seemed—had already been lost. Isabela tried to ignore the dark stains that splashed across the ground and building walls.

She knew the damage would spread. It would make the city unrecognizable once the dreadnaughts arrived.

She realized she was grinding her teeth, and bit her tongue to make herself stop.

"This is all your fault," she heard Aveline hiss at her under her breath.

The pirate pretended she hadn't heard. Let the bitch moan, she thought. She'd only done what was necessary to survive. The redhead couldn't understand the decisions she'd been forced to make.

The words sounded hollow, even in her own head, and the pirate sped up her steps in an effort to leave them behind.

The rest of the group was not as nimble as she, and they had to struggle to keep pace. Even Hawke sounded almost winded when he whispered coarsely behind her, "Don't be careless, Isabela."

She slowed, but only because they had arrived at their destination. She crouched down behind the wreckage of a low, stone wall and cast a wary eye into the street.

The Foundry District was _crawling_ with Qunari soldiers.

There were more of the oxmen here than they'd encountered anywhere else along the jaunt so far, and Isabela's nerves began to thrum. Had Wall-eyed Sam been stupid enough to tip off the _Qunari_ about the exchange? Even a simpleton should know that the savages didn't know how to bargain!

The rest of the party settled into the space behind her. Hawke's hand reached out past her face, and her breathing caught as he leaned over her to peer into the road for himself. She could feel the heat of his breath in her hair.

"My… my contact should be nearby…" she mumbled, recovering her composure.

"There are Qunari everywhere," Anders balked. "You really think he's here?"

"Keep your voice down," Hawke warned him, pulling back.

Anders seemed anxious, his voice a slightly higher pitch than normal, even at a whisper. "You really think they would fight us? Even though the Arishok knows Hawke?"

Isabela nodded, "If they recognize my face, I don't think that Hawke being here will matter. It's safer to assume 'yes'."

"Fabulous," Aveline grumbled.

Anders frowned, his gaunt skin looking even paler than usual in the growing darkness. "So then how are we going to—"

A huge crash cut off the mage's words.

Several crates smashed onto the cobbled stone, scattering wares that sounded entirely like ceramic and glass. Rats and a feral dog went squealing down the alley, away from the noise.

Isabela's heart was lodged to tightly in her throat that she didn't even comprehend what had happened until she heard Aveline's incredulous voice say, " _Merrill_?"

The slight elf stood cringing against the wall, clutching her staff to her chest and looking for all the world as if she wished she could disappear behind it. "I'm _sorry_ ," she moaned.

They didn't have time to figure out where the elf had even come from before a Qunari guardsman came whipping around the wall. "Who goes there?" The sten bellowed, thrusting his sword in Isabela's face.

"Shit," the pirate muttered, as she saw recognition rise behind his eyes. Of all the rotten luck…

"You!" the Qunari bellowed. "Surrender the relic!"

"I don't have your stupid relic," she snapped, reaching for her swords.

"The _bas_ has no honor!" the sten shouted to his peers. "Kill them all and search the bodies!"

The oxman raised his sword to bring it down through her skull, but Isabela whirled away in a flurry, blind to Hawke and the others as the scene devolved into violence.

She flitted from soldier to soldier, slicing at throats, faces, tongues: anything she could to keep them from raising a greater alarm. If Sam heard this scuffle it wouldn't matter if they killed every oxman in the city—the coward would disappear, along with her prize.

Despite the screeches of steel, and the sparks and flares of magic, the street somehow went silent again.

Isabela cast her eyes about the alcove, surprised to find that there hadn't been nearly as many guards as she'd thought.

"I guess that solves the problem of getting us in," Anders grimaced, healing a spot where a blade had bit into his arm.

"We have to hurry!" Isabela demanded, rounding on the rest of her companions. "Before the other patrol groups double back."

Aveline nodded begrudgingly, but Hawke didn't seem to have heard her urgings at all. Instead he'd rounded to where Merrill sagged against the buildings' stone.

The elf seemed tired, but otherwise unhurt. She cowered only slightly as Hawke approached.

"What are you doing here?" the mage growled at her, his anger plain across his face.

"I wanted to help," the elf gulped, her eyes glued to him.

"Go home," Hawke told her.

Merrill's expression hardened, "But I can—" she began.

"Go _home_!" Hawke roared.

Aveline, Anders, and Isabela stood stock-still—stunned by Hawke's sudden ferocity. Isabela felt a chill run down her spine. For a moment she wasn't sure if she should be more afraid of the Qunari, or the man she'd brought to be her ward against them.

Oblivious to the rest of their apprehension, Merrill shouted right back in the Hawke's face. "I won't! You always send me away! I want to _be_ with you!"

The words hung on the air, and then Anders snickered before he could stop himself. He tried to turn the laugh into a cough by quickly covering his mouth.

Aveline looked confused, and Isabela imagined her own face must appear equally bewildered. She never would have guessed that the elf had it in her to say something so forward. Did the girl even know what she'd just implied?

"You want to 'be' with him?" the pirate mouthed. The words felt toxic.

Merrill heard her though, and a slow understanding came over her face. Her skin flushed all the way out to the pointed tips of her ears.

"Th-that's—!" she gasped. "I-I just meant—I want to help! That's what I meant! I-I just—ohhhh—"

"We don't have time for this," Isabela choked.

Hawke took several long steps away from Merrill at the pirate's urging, and the rest of the bemused group began to follow his lead.

"Wait!" Merrill called after them. "I—"

"Don't follow," Hawke said, without looking back. His voice didn't sound as angry somehow, but it was still a command.

"But—"

"You'll be in the way, Merrill," he told her.

Isabela watched sadness sweep over the elf's face, and turned back down the street, somewhat disgusted with herself. When it came to romance, the elf was hardly more than a child—it shouldn't bring her such joy to watch Hawke shoot her down.

"Stay here," he continued, "where you won't get hurt."

But was he shooting her down?

Something about the way Hawke spoke to Merrill made Isabela feel empty.

The pirate pried open the door to the old factory Sam had indicated. She needed to get this over with before anything else could happen that made her feel sick in her own skin.

Hawke, Anders and Aveline ducked through the gap.

She edged in behind them, casting a final glance at the dejected elf.

Merrill had sunk back against the alley wall, watching them with red-rimmed eyes. Isabela swallowed her jealousy, and yanked the entryway shut.

She could understand why Merrill would be upset at being left behind... but what the elf wasn't picking up on was the fact that Hawke was trying to keep her safe.


	17. Chapter 17

The streets were quiet after the group disappeared into the Foundry. Merrill watched the closed door woefully. She felt useless.

When she'd seen them all sneaking off to the docks she'd been curious, and thought she might be able to help, but look where that had gotten her.

Foolish. Foolish and clumsy. That's what she was. She hoped her accident hadn't blown whatever cover her friends had been trying to keep.

Footsteps and gruff voices reached Merrill's ears, and she shifted, wary. Another Qunari patrol was doubling back towards where she sat. She glanced at the slain soldiers scattered about and her heart began to race. If the guards saw this scene, Hawke and the others would be found for sure.

She whispered a few choice words, and touched her palm to the floor of the alley. There were no true roots nearby, but the lower half of the city was rich with the magic of the _vhenadahl_. She could feel the old tree's comforting presence even here. Around her, raw tendrils of nature magic began to snake their way through the soil towards the dead.

With as much care as she was able in the time allowed, Merrill used the spell to drag the bodies further back into the dark. There wasn't anywhere to truly hide them, but by the time the new patrol moved past, they were at least out of the street.

The elf held her breath as the voices closed in, praying to Mythal that the guards would not think overmuch of the sprays of blood on the cobblestones. There was nothing she could do to hide those.

Thankfully, the night had settled in earnest, and the pitch darkness shrouded the mess. Even with their torches, the guards' didn't seem to see the gore. Instead, their path took them past her hiding spot in long swift strides. They were clearly looking for something, but their urgency distracted them from looking close enough to notice what was amiss.

Merrill thought on Hawke's warning to return home, and decided against it. She had to make sure he got out of the Foundry before the guards found the bodies of the Qunari they'd killed. At the very least, she could sit there and guard corpses. She was good for that much.

Several tense minutes crawled by, each seeming longer than the last.

Occasional shouts and cries sounded in distance. Once a mabari howled, and then squealed out in a way that made Merrill bite the inside of her cheek. Murder hung heavy over the whole city. Kirkwall had never been a safe place, but she'd never been as afraid of it. She remained crouched in the alley, listening for the sounds of footsteps with only the dead for company.

Without warning, the old foundry door flew back open with a bang.

A ratty man with straw-like hair burst out of the entrance. He was carrying a large square package in his arms, and Isabela was hot on his heels.

Merrill jumped to her feet at the commotion, and her friend's frenzied eyes made contact with her own.

"Stop him!" Isabela screamed.

The elf scrambled to follow the order, half throwing herself over the low wall to block the man's path.

The man lurched backwards in surprise, and in that millisecond of hesitation, Isabela's daggers fell upon him, rending his back from shoulder to spleen.

He cried out, but the pirate quickly cut off the shout with another gash at his windpipe. The man collapsed in a pile at Merrill's feet, his burden falling away from his limp arms into the dirt.

Merrill crouched down, reaching for the dropped package. "What is this?" she asked.

"Look over there!" Isabela gasped, pointing wildly beyond Merrill's shoulder.

The elf yelped, whirling around. "Is it more Qunari?"

The moment she turned, a blow connected with the side of her face. Her vision lurched, then swam. Her awareness fled as the earth rose to meet her.

...

The rest of the party followed Isabela up to the street as soon as they could. Tevinter agents and Qunari guardsmen had been waiting for the tome inside the Foundry. It hadn't been clear exactly who the scrawny cutpurse had betrayed them to, but it was obvious he'd intended for them to be killed in the exchange.

Hawke wasn't sure what he'd expected to see when he pushed open the door, but the fact that Isabela was nowhere to be found didn't come as a great surprise.

"Did he get away from her?" Anders wondered, stepping out into the night air beside him.

Hawke's gaze fell upon the outline of a corpse near the alley. "No," he said. He moved closer to get a better look.

"What happened to all the Qunari we fought before?" Aveline murmured, peering about. "There should be more bodies, shouldn't there?"

Hawke heard her comment with a growing sense of foreboding. Instead of stopping at the man's remains, he took a few steps closer to the alley.

The oxmen they'd fought were piled up in the shadows just beyond the low wall. And despite his warnings, Merrill lay sprawled in the dirt at the foot of the heap.

"This is why I told her to go home," he muttered. Aveline and Anders came to stand behind him as he rolled the elf onto her side.

"Is she all right?" the Guard Captain asked, sounding hesitant.

Hawke's fingertips could feel the flutter of Merrill's heartbeat in her throat. The soft, slow breaths she released eased a tightness that had coiled in his chest. "Just unconscious," he said.

He brushed his knuckles against a lump that was already beginning to swell at the elf's temple.

"I don't understand," Aveline growled, "Who did this?"

Hawke pulled his eye from Merrill's injury to survey the rest of the space. "She's been moved here," he said, noting a trail in the dirt. His gaze stopped at a lone word that had been scratched with a dagger point into the mud near Merrill's head.

 _Sorry._

"Isabela," he sighed, pointing out the etching to the others.

"She's _gone_?" Aveline floundered. "That bitch-born whore!"

"Why would she attack Merrill?" Anders said, sounding equally incredulous.

The Guard Captain seethed, "Because she is the _lowest_ , foulest type of slattern that ever—"

"That's enough, Aveline," Hawke said, feeling suddenly tired. He should have expected this. People like Isabela only told the truth when it was part of a greater lie. He knew this. He shouldn't have expected more just because it was her.

"But, Hawke!" Aveline protested. "How will we deal with the Arishok now?"

Hawke slid his arm beneath Merrill's neck, lifting her halfway into his lap.

She was so light.

Just as his mother had been.

Her body was warmer though, and her skin still bright with life. If it was within his power, he intended to keep her that way.

"We won't," he said, slipping his other arm beneath the elf's knees. He took a moment to adjust her weight in his limbs, and then stood, lifting her with him. "What's done is done."

He'd expected the others to protest, but they said nothing. He turned to find them both staring at him, their mouths hanging slack.

"…What?"

Anders jaw worked. "You… you're carrying her?" the mage gaped.

Hawke frowned. They had time to waste on this? Wordlessly, he turned and started to walk past the Qunari corpses in the alley.

"Wait, Hawke," Aveline called after him, recovering her wits. "Where are you going?"

"Away," he said, his words cold. "The dreadnaughts will be here by sunrise. If you are both smart, you will leave too."

"I can't _abandon_ my post," the Guard Captain hissed. "I can't abandon this city—these people—to the Arishok's mercy! We have to stop this!"

"How?" Hawke demanded. "Isabela is gone. She has taken the tome. We have nothing the Arishok wants. After all Petrice and the others have done, why shouldn't he run this city into the ground?"

"Y-you…" Aveline stammered. "You could…"

She still wanted him to talk to the Arishok; to try to convince the Qunari general to take his army and leave. If that failed, she would expect him to fight—to die—trying to save a swarm of faces he cared nothing about.

He turned away before she could ask it of him.


	18. Chapter 18

Merrill awoke to a swaying sensation.

Her head pulsed horribly, and she groaned, clutching at the sorest spot on her skull. The swagger stopped.

"…You're awake?"

Hawke's voice whispered the words right next to her ear.

Merrill jerked in surprise, her eyes popping open. It took her a half second to realize what was happening, and then heat flared to her cheeks. "Put me down!" she yelped, struggling in his grasp.

"Easy," he grunted, annoyed. He lowered her on to her feet. "Are you sure you can—"

"Yes, of course I'm sure!" she whimpered, pushing away from him. "I'm perfectly fi—woo…"

Vertigo swirled her field of vision and, were it not for Hawke's supportive arm, she might have fallen on her face.

"Slow down, Merrill," he scolded. "You might have a concussion."

"I'm just a bit dizzy is all," she claimed.

The man grunted at her response, and turned her to face him. Without giving her the chance to protest, her cupped his large hands to both sides of her head.

"Hold still," he murmured.

Healing magic began to glow in his palms. In seconds she could feel it start to alleviate the ache, and the nausea that went with it.

Hawke's fingers meandered through her hair as he worked. His hands felt impossibly warm. They were standing so close together that Merrill felt certain he must be able to hear her heartbeat, hammering in her ears.

She tried to avoid the fervent look of concentration in his gaze, and ended up staring instead at the arched wings of his collarbone. His pale skin was not quite covered by the hood of his cloak, and glowed pearlescent in the magic's light. She wondered how it might feel if she were to press her lips against his flesh...

The thought had barely crossed her mind before it was buried in an avalanche of shame. What in the world was she thinking?! Now was hardly the time for such improper fantasies!

She blinked furiously trying to clear her thoughts, and noticed for the first time a thin silver chain hung round Hawke's neck, and disappeared into the collar of his jerkin. The necklace seemed familiar, though she'd never seen him wear any sort of adornment. She realized with a sinking feeling in her stomach that the necklace might be the same one he'd retrieved from the foundry-the one that had belonged to his mother.

Here Hawke was, two days out from the death of the most important person in his life, and stuck taking care of _her_.

"You don't have to do this," she stammered, catching his hands, and pulling away. "I'm feeling much better now, truly. And there's no time to lose. Isabela—"

Her head free of Hawke's hold, she looked about and realized the pirate was nowhere nearby. Neither were Aveline nor Anders, for that matter, and they were in a completely different part of the city than she had been before. In fact, it was nearly morning—the faint purple and pink of the sunrise were beginning to tint the sky.

"Where are we?" she pondered. "What happened?"

Hawke watched her face, not responding as she tried to remember what had occurred before she passed out. "Isabela was chasing a man," she said, cradling her forehead. "He had something in his arms… I thought he was dead, but perhaps he…"

Something wasn't right. The man had definitely been dead. But that couldn't be true because then who would have struck her? There was no one else there besides—

"Isabela betrayed you," Hawke told her, his voice low. "She knocked you out so she could take what that man was carrying. It was a valuable item, and she wanted it for herself."

"Noo…" Merrill said slowly, trying to decide if Hawke was making a joke. She hadn't heard one from him in years, and this seemed an odd time for him to regain his sense of humor. "Isabela would never."

Hawke arched his eyebrow at her.

"She wouldn't hurt me," Merrill insisted, defensive. "She wouldn't trick me like that, and she certainly wouldn't trick _you_. She—," Merrill realized what she'd started to say, and the words got caught in her throat. For some reason they were incredibly difficult to say out loud, but she forced them loose to complete her point. "She loves you…."

Hawke looked away from her, his jaw tight. "She knocked you unconscious," he repeated. He sounded stiff, and Merrill feared that she'd spoken of something she shouldn't. "She knocked you unconscious, and she fled. She's gone."

Merrill's gaze searched the street around them, trying to sort out her thoughts. The city was even quieter in the dawn than it had been the day before. The silence was menacing, crushing. If they couldn't relieve some of this tension, something was going to break.

"Are we… going to go after her?" Merrill asked.

Hawke looked at her as though she'd said something odd. "Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?" the elf wondered. "To get back what she took. And to figure out why she did it in the first place; she must have had a good reason."

"She _attacked_ you," Hawke snarled. "Do you even hear yourself?"

"Does it sound that silly?" Merrill argued back. "I want to know _why_. She's one of the best friends I had here in Kirkwall; she wouldn't do something like that out of the blue; she's not that kind of person!"

Hawke looked like he was going to disagree again, but then groaned instead, dragging his hand over his bandaged face. "She did have a reason," he admitted. "But so what? She still did what she did, and now the whole city is going to pay for it."

Merrill frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

The morning sun crested the horizon behind Hawke's shoulders, and with it came the shockwave of an explosion so terrible it shook the very ground beneath their feet. The silence of the morning was shattered by the distant sound of screams.

"What was that!?" Merrill wailed, reclaiming her balance.

Around them, groggy faces began appearing in windows and poking out of doorways, trying to find the source of the noise.

"It's started," Hawke growled, looking back towards the harbor.

She followed his gaze. Smoke was rising from the shoreline. From this distance she could just make out the black silhouettes of the Qunari battleships off the coast.

A gasp escaped her. "They're really attacking?"

"Come, Merrill," Hawke said. He took her hand and started pulling her towards Hightown.

"Wait!" she pleaded. "That looks like it hit near Anders' clinic! We have to make sure that he's all right!"

"There isn't time," Hawke snapped.

She yanked her hand out of his grip. "What do you _mean_ , there isn't time? He could be hurt! We have to help him!"

"Merrill!"

Another explosion rocked the city, and the elf staggered. This bomb had landed much closer to them, and the cries that followed sounded out in agony. People began to pour into the streets, cursing and wailing. Fire raced along the roofs and awnings of homes, spreading as quickly as if started by a spell.

Civilians surged around her, and Merrill began shoving her way back towards Darktown.

"Stop, Merrill!" Hawke's voice snarled behind her.

Somehow he caught hold of her arm again in the sea of people. "It's too dangerous."

"Then you don't have to go if you don't want to!" she shouted at him, "But don't stop me! I'm going to find everyone! I'm going to help _our_ friends."

Hawke's golden eye searched her face as the Qunari blackpowder continued to fall around them. He started to say something to her, but she couldn't hear him over the noise.

"What?" she yelled.

He pulled her so close she could feel the tickle of his beard. "I will go with you," he said, his words hot against her cheek. "Do not leave my side."


	19. Chapter 19

They found Aveline first, caught up in a skirmish near the gates of the Qunari Compound.

It seemed she'd done a fair job of rallying the guards, and her soldiers swarmed around her, locked with the swords and horns of their enemies. Merrill and Hawke joined the fray and quickly the fighting swung in the Guard Captain's favor. When all of the Qunari had either fallen or submitted, Merrill got the chance to dart to her side.

"Aveline!" the elf cried. "Thank Mythal you're safe!"

"Merrill?"

Aveline's wide eyes passed over her shoulder to where Hawke stood wiping blood from his staff. "I thought you were leaving?"

"I thought so too," Hawke returned, his words dry.

Merrill looked between them. "How could we leave you?" she said. "You need our help, right?"

Aveline glanced at the grim and frightened faces of her soldiers. "I certainly won't turn it down," she admitted. Merrill bit back a small bubble of joy. It was so wonderful to be needed, she thought. No matter how dire the cause.

"Where's Anders?" Hawke asked, moving to join them.

The Guard Captain grimaced. "He was still with me when the raid started. The first blast looked to have hit near his clinic, so he rushed off to Darktown." She sighed. "I sent some soldiers with him, and Varric and Sebastian too."

"We should go to look for them," Merrill said. "They might need us if the fighting is bad."

"The fighting _is_ bad," Aveline groaned, "But it's bad everywhere. I have runners making reports, and the Qunari have made a strong push."

"How strong?" Hawke grumbled, sounding apprehensive.

Aveline looked at him, her green eyes almost pleading. "The Arishok moved straight for the Keep. Last I heard, they were trying to force their way inside." The Guard Captain glanced again at her soldiers, and took a step closer, so that only Merrill and Hawke could hear. "Honestly," she told them, "with Viscount Dumar disposed as he is, I wouldn't be surprised if they've already taken the gate. I can't imagine the viscount was able to call his men to arms."

Hawke frowned. "Then the city is lost."

"Don't say that!" Merrill scolded, glaring at him. "Not yet. We don't know for sure what's become of Dumar. If we hurry, we might not be too late!

"She's right, Hawke," Aveline pressed. "I was going to lead my soldiers to retake the Keep. However…" she looked between them, "If you would be willing to assist me instead, I can have my men focus on protecting and evacuating civilians."

"I'll help you," Merrill promised. "I'll do anything I can."

"Hawke?" Aveline begged.

The man rolled his shoulders, not looking at either of them. He didn't respond to her plea, but he also didn't leave.

Aveline flashed Merrill a wry smile, and began barking out orders to her troops.

In good time, they were on the move again, speeding as fast as they could towards the tower at the center of the city.

...

Fresh screams greeted them as they broke into the Hightown merchant's plaza. Several _karasaad_ , and a _saarebas_ on the leash of a very large _arvaarad_ swept through the crowd. The qunari slashed out at random as people attempted to flee.

Merrill noticed a familiar face engaged with a _sten_.

"Fenris!" she yelped, pointing him out to her other companions.

The lyrium-scarred elf took note of her with his usual scowl before plowing his fist through his opponent's chest.

A large black ball of fur launched past Fenris' shoulder, and glistening white fangs clamped down on the Qunari's throat.

Hawke saw this and whistled through his teeth after the _sten_ fell. Marro's head whipped up at the sharp sound, releasing his prize.

"I was wondering where you were," Fenris snapped when he saw the other man. "I went to your estate, and Bodahn said you'd been gone all night! The city has gone mad, Hawke!"

"We can discuss it later," Aveline interrupted. "Fenris, we're heading for the Keep, and we could desperately use your help."

The elf snorted at her. "I'll bet you could," he scoffed, just as the other Qunari noticed that their comrade had been slain.

"I'll take the left," he shouted as they were all pulled back into battle.

Aveline and Fenris each took one of the _karasaad_ , while Marro lunged at the _saarebas_. Merrill did her best to protect the dog by dispelling its opponent's magic.

While she stayed at a distance, Hawke joined his mabari—fighting the _arvaarad_ practically face to face. She found it hard not to be distracted by the other mage. It was unfathomable to her how Hawke could concentrate enough to cast spells at such a close range. She'd heard legends among the Dalish of sword-wielding mages in civilizations of the past. She wondered if Hawke had trained himself to fight in a similar way.

A sharp yelp from Marro broke her from her reverie. While she'd been entranced watching Hawke, the _saarebas_ had blasted the poor dog out of its path. The mabari was struggling to rise; it looked as though his back leg might be broken.

Merrill cursed herself, running to the dog's side. For the first time she could remember the dog did not shy nor snarl at her reaching hands. Instead he whimpered pitifully, licking at her fingertips as she tried to assess the damage.

"Merrill! Look out!" Aveline bellowed from across the square.

The elf started, her eyes whipping to find the _saarebas_ bearing down upon her. In a panic, she flung a half-cast spell at it from the ground, but the feral mage tore through the barrier.

Its taloned fingers stretched to close around her throat.

Merrill shut her eyes tight, anticipating pain, but the sensation didn't come. Instead there was a soft swish of metal, and the sound of a body falling. Then Marro emitted a low growl.

The elf cracked open her eyes to see a tall woman standing before her. She was clad completely in glistening silver plate; save for where wisps of white-blonde hair that escaped from beneath her crimson hood. The woman turned slowly to look down on Merrill, her eyes as pale and piercing as ice.

The symbol emblazoned on the woman's chest made Merrill's blood run cold.

"What have we here?" the templar drawled. "A Dalish mage? Perhaps I should have waited a moment longer before drawing my sword."

Merrill's throat was so dry she couldn't speak.

She'd been so careful to avoid the city's templars up until this point. How bad was her luck that she should encounter one today of all days?

Whatever response she might have come up with was cut short by a pair of strong hands jerking her to her feet.

Hawke positioned her firmly behind him, and the woman's wintry gaze shifted to him instead.

"Knight Commander," he intoned.

Merrill's heart almost stopped. She cowered behind Hawke's back despite herself, all but overcome with fear.

This woman was Knight Commander Meredith? They'd exchanged words! What would she do now that the head of Kirkwall's templar order knew what she was?

"A man with half a face, wearing the old Amell sigil…" the mage hunter said as she looked him over. Her voice was as cold as her eyes. "You must be the man called 'Hawke'."

If Hawke was surprised that she knew of him, he didn't show it. "I am," he told her, unyielding.

Meredith sized him up from head to foot, and a small smile that held no humor twisted one corner of her lips. "…Enlightening."

The woman swung the _saarebas'_ blood from her blade, and turned up the path towards the Chantry. "I am glad we finally had an opportunity to meet," she drawled over her shoulder. "I'm sure we will have much to talk about the next time we come face to face. Provided we both live through this war, of course."

The threat in her words made Merrill's skin crawl, but Hawke ignored her as she walked away.

Instead he knelt to tend to Marro's wounds.

The mabari stood without aid after a moment. As he did, he shook himself, and let out a gruff bark, telling them all he was ready to return to the fight.

"I'm sorry," Merrill said meekly as Hawke rose back to his feet.

"Marro is a war hound," he grumbled in response. "He will be fine. But you should pay better attention to your surroundings."

He caught her hand as he brushed past her shoulder, and tugged her onward.

He didn't let go until they reached the base of the stronghold's steps, and Merrill realized, with a bit of embarrassment, that she missed the feeling of his grip.

The setting, thankfully, didn't allow her much time to wallow.

There was more fighting here—only this time the charge was being led by other mages. Merrill didn't think she'd ever seen so many gathered in a single place.

They wore Circle robes, and struggled valiantly, but it was clear right away that most of them had no experience with battle. Several fell before their group could reach them. By the time the fighting was done, only a grey-haired elf was still standing alongside them. He wore rich looking robes, and carried a staff carved to resemble a serpent with three heads.

The man's eyes widened when he noticed Hawke, and Merrill could have sworn that she heard her companion curse under his breath.

"Master Hawke!" the old elf gasped, obviously relieved. "Andraste be praised; perhaps the day can still be won!"

"First Enchanter," Hawke responded, his tone reserved.

Did he mean First Enchanter Orsino? Merrill thought. She'd never seen the head of the Circle Tower in person, but she'd heard tell of him. She nibbled the inside of her cheek, feeling somewhat disappointed. The great mage's countenance was not at all striking after her impression of the templar Knight Commander. The balding elf seemed to her more like a grandfather than a powerful public leader.

"Is your healer with you?" the First Enchanter continued, searching their faces. "We are in dire need of help, Circle mage or otherwise."

"He's not," Hawke said. "He is occupied elsewhere."

"A shame," Orsino mumbled absently. He ducked down to help one of his fallen comrades, stabilizing her wounds himself. His actions were practiced, and Merrill could tell that the magic came easily to him. Despite his subdued demeanor, he undoubtedly had more skill than the rest of his peers.

"Are you heading towards the Keep?" he asked, stealing glances at them as he tended to his patient.

Hawke nodded. "Yes."

"Then give me a moment," Orsino told them, "and I will go with you. The nobles are being gathered there. Held hostage. I fear terribly for the life of our Viscount."

Hawke was quiet for a moment and then said, "You should stay here and tend to your people. Leave the Keep to me and mine."

Orsino looked over them all, his grey eyes skeptical. Merrill knew that they must look dreadful—sweat-covered and splattered with blood. "…The few of you alone cannot take on the whole of the Qunari forces," the First Enchanter frowned. "That would be suicide."

Hawke cast a telling glance about the dead and wounded mages sprawled around the courtyard. "Did you tell the same to this lot?" he asked.

A deep anger flitted so quickly across the old mage's face that Merrill wasn't certain of what she'd saw. For a moment, he'd looked hateful: as if he'd transformed into another person. The darkness cleared so fast that she didn't think Hawke had seen it. Instead the First Enchanter dropped his gaze and adopted a miserable smile. "They wanted to protect their home. What right had I to try and stop them?"

Hawke shrugged. "Perhaps none. And you have even less to stop me."

Orsino grimaced. "I must protest. I really think—"

"Take care of your wounded, First Enchanter," Hawke insisted. "We can handle ourselves."

Merrill noticed Aveline exchange a sardonic look with Fenris as Hawke turned away. She hurried to follow, but couldn't help glancing back at the older man.

He had turned his gaze back to the injuries of the fallen mage. His brow was drawn down low as he worked, shrouding his expression, and making it impossible to read.

"Do you think we should have put it more gently?" Merrill wondered, catching up to Hawke. "He seemed upset."

"Let him seethe," Hawke grunted. "He is a coward. He mewls after power, but is too afraid to use any of his own."

"He's the _First Enchanter_ ," Merrill reminded him, taken aback by Hawke's venom towards the other mage. "That must count for something."

"Save your concerns for the fight to come, Merrill," Hawke said, ending the conversation. "You can fret about Orsino after we survive whatever is waiting for us on the other side of these doors."


	20. Chapter 20

The scene that greeted them in the keep's throne room was exactly as the First Enchanter had feared.

Merrill averted her eyes, sickened by the way Dumar's severed head wobbled across the floor.

"Here is your Viscount," the Arishok declared as the nobles of Kirkwall shied away from the gore.

"You dare?" One younger man shouted. "You've started a war!"

The Arishok scoffed at his words and gestured to one of his _antaam_. The Qunari soldier rammed his greatsword straight through the noble's back. The room erupted into sobs and cries as the man's life pooled on the marble tile.

"Look at you!" the Arishok snarled, tossing his horns in disgust. "Like fat _darthrasi_ you feed and feed and complain only when your meal is interrupted! You do not look up; you do not see that the grass is bare beneath your feet! You are blind! I will _make_ you see."

As he finished his speech his white eyes noticed Hawke and the rest of them where they'd entered at the back of the room.

Mild surprise played on his features.

"But we have guests…" he said. He turned to face them in full, and the crowd split before them, afraid of his gaze. Merrill understood their fear. She had only ever seen the Qunari leader from afar—through the barrier of the Compound's fence. Then he had intimidated her, but now she felt cowed.

He stood tall, and proud as a mountain on the throne room's dais. He must have been nearly eight feet tall, even without the scythe-like horns that twisted back and up over his ears. He wore steel-plate bracers on his arms and legs, but chose to leave the larger part of his torso exposed. His bare skin was the color of ash, and rippled so heavily with muscle it might have been carved of stone.

" _Shanedan_ , Hawke." The menacing war chief greeted them as if amused. "I admit, I was not expecting you to take up arms in this fight."

"Arishok," Hawke responded, inclining his head. "It is not my wish to have to use them against you."

The massive Qunari snorted, and turned to sit down on what had been the Viscount's throne. The great chair creaked beneath his weight.

When he was settled, he growled, "You have proven yourself to be the _one_ —among the thousands in this city—who is worthy of my respect. You know why it is I cannot withdraw. And you see this city for the disease that it is. So, tell me: why do you defend it?"

Merrill gulped.

Hawke could hardly say she'd forced him to.

She began to feel guilty for having driven him into this corner.

"You need no longer stay in Kirkwall," Hawke answered, dodging the question. "The Tome of Koslun is gone. You are wasting time in this place while the thief makes her escape."

The Arishok barked out an ill-humored laugh. "If that was your attempt at negotiation, Hawke, I am disappointed. There is nowhere on this slime-ridden continent that _basra_ can hide from us," he vowed. "If we must pry every stone from every castle; if we must purge every single scrap of sin. There is nowhere to run. _Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra! Anaan esaam Qun_!"

His words built in intensity as he spoke in his native tongue. The Qunari soldiers surrounding them rallied his words with shouts and roars of support. By the end they were all stomping, and pounding upon their shields.

"W-what did he say?" Merrill asked, intimidated by the reaction his speech had caused.

Hawke didn't respond. His expression was set in frustrated thought.

Behind her, Fenris muttered, "'Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun.'"

"…That… doesn't sound promising," Merrill whimpered.

"No, it does not," Fenris agreed.

"Is there no way I can convince you to leave this place with no more bloodshed than has already been wrought?" Hawke asked the Arishok, speaking over the noise.

The room quieted again as all ears awaited the qunari general's response.

After a time, the Arishok signed. "I acknowledge you, Hawke," he lamented, tilting his mighty head to the side, "But I do not see how this could be done. These _kabethari_ have committed crimes we never should have tolerated. We can no longer let their insults pass without punishment—our honor will not allow it."

The Qunari general snorted again, and rose back up to his feet. "Perhaps if you _had_ the Tome," he said grudgingly, "I could do this thing. But without it there can be no compromise."

The nobles started to panic once again, and this time Merrill too felt anxiety pinch in her chest. She realized she had never allowed for the possibility that this negotiation might fail. Hawke had tried to warn her, but she was so used to watching him accomplish the impossible that she had never stopped to actually consider what might happen to them if their parlay didn't work out.

"Hawke—" she started to say, her throat tight.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "If this comes to fighting, I want you to run."

"But—"

"Don't fight. Just flee. You heard him, Merrill," he said firmly. "Without the tome, there's nothing more we can do."

A soft cough echoed near the entrance to the room.

Like a single entity, everyone present turned their faces to stare at the source of the sound. When Merrill saw what had caused the stir, she had to gulp down several deep breaths to combat the urge to cry.

"Then it's a good thing I'm here," Isabela said.

Her voice sounded hoarse, and less confident than the elf was accustomed to hearing. She looked tired, and confused, but more than anything—uncharacteristically shy.

Merrill saw the pirate's amber eyes flit to Hawke, and she mumbled, "I can't believe I'm doing this…."

The elf snuck a nervous glance at Hawke's face too, and was somewhat pained by the look of surprise that showed on his features. He looked almost… pleased… and while she was happy as well, the feeling was muddled by a bitterness she didn't quite understand.

"This is what you want, right?" Isabela called out, bringing Merrill's attention back to the issue at hand. "Here's your book back," the pirate said to Arishok. She raised a large, square parcel in the air. Merrill recognized it as the same one she had tried to pick up, down at the docks.

"Sorry about the trouble," Isabela continued. Her voice seemed to recover a bit of her usual vibrato the more she spoke. "The thing was a bitch to find. But here it is, safe and sound. Will you leave now?"

The Arishok's expression had grown somber the moment Isabela had appeared. He said nothing at all, but nodded again to one of his soldiers, who covered the distance to the pirate in rushed strides. He snatched the package out of her hands.

He tore open a corner of the wrapping, and quickly lifted his head. "It is as the _basra_ says, _arishok_. The relic is returned."

The Arishok crossed his arms, seeming to sink into thought.

"…Is that enough?" Hawke ventured, taking a step closer to the center of the throne room.

The soldier carrying the relic crossed back to his leader's side, revealing the front cover of an extremely old looking leather-bound tome.

The Arisok rested his palm upon it for a moment, and then looked back at Hawke. "It is. We will take the relic, and the woman, and leave this place."

Two qunari guards standing near the door lurched forward at his words, seizing Isabela by her upper arms. "What?" the pirate choked.

"Wait!" Merrill pleaded, starting forward. Hawke caught her and held her back.

"Why the woman?" he challenged.

The Arishok frowned at him. "What she did cannot by allowed to stand. She _must_ be punished."

"We can punish her here," Hawke pressed.

The Arishok tossed his head, agitated. "Such a crime must be paid for with her life," he growled. "You are a man of conviction, Hawke, but this woman clearly has a connection to you. I do not believe you would kill her."

"You're overestimating our 'connection'," Isabela spat as she struggled against her captors. The heavy-set guards resisted her efforts with startling ease. Even as she fought, they began to drag her away.

Merrill whimpered, struggling to free herself from Hawke's own vice-like grip. "They _can't_!" she moaned. "You can't take her; she did the right thing!"

Her protests caught the Arishok's attention. His glare found her in the crowd, a perceptible anger in his gaze.

Without warning, Hawke's other arm hooked around her waist. He scooped her backwards towards Aveline. Both women emitted sounds of surprise as they were forced together, but the redhead held Merrill tightly, and prevented her from breaking forward again onto the floor.

Having pushed her away, Hawke strode closer towards the base of the stairs. The crowd continued to part as he passed, watching him with a combination of terror and awe.

"…If you must take a life," Hawke said, his voice resounding throughout the chamber, "then try and come after mine."

"What?!" Merrill cried. The word seemed to echo, and Merrill realized that she and Isabela had said it at the exact same time.

The Arishok ignored their protests, watching Hawke with renewed interest.

"You and I will fight," Hawke continued, holding the Qunari's gaze. "One-on-one."

Fenris squirmed next to Merrill's shoulder. "Hawke…" he warned, "This is—"

The mage didn't heed him; he was already committed to his words. "If you win," he proposed, "you may take the woman. You may do whatever you like with her. But if I win, your forces will leave the woman, and the city, with no more damage done. The Tome remains yours either way."

The Arishok leaned back, mulling over the offer. "….To challenge an _arishok_ is not a common thing," he told them after a moment. "Few earn the right. Fewer are granted the privilege."

Hawke set his jaw, but said nothing.

The Arishok chuckled. "Very well, Hawke. You amuse me. As _basa-lit_ , I will honor your bargain. But this will be a fight of honor: to the death. Are you certain you are ready to meet your end this day?"

Merrill writhed in Aveline's hold, but the Guard Captain didn't let go.

"Death is no stranger to me," Hawke replied.

The Arishok grinned, and his soldiers around the room began to drive the crowds back. Merrill found herself being dragged away by both Aveline and Fenris. "Wait! Please!" she pleaded with them over and over again. She couldn't let Hawke do this! She'd made him come here; it was _her_ fault! She couldn't let him fight alone! "Please!"

"I'm sorry, Merrill," Aveline muttered, avoiding her eyes.

Still being held by the Qunari guards, Isabela also shouted at Hawke. "Stop this! I don't need you to fight my battles for me!"

Hawke glanced at her as he unstrapped his staff from his back. "Merrill was right," he said, looking away again. "You did the right thing. And I am… glad… that you came back."

His admission caught thief off guard. For a dazed moment she forgot her struggle with the Qunari soldiers, and allowed them to lead her to the edge of the hall.

The Arishok stepped down from the throne's pedestal and into the pseudo arena that had formed around its base. One of his _antaam_ passed him a broadsword nearly as long as Hawke was tall. If it wasn't for Aveline's grip, Merrill might have lost all the strength in her legs.

Her cries diminished to unintelligible whimpering as the two fighters squared off. Hawke had never seemed small in all the time that she'd known him, but standing next to the massive oxman and his murderous blade, the man looked impossibly fragile.

The room grew still.

The anticipation for the first exchange of blows was palpable. Hardly a soul even dared to breathe.

And then the Arishok sneered. "Come."


	21. Chapter 21

Merrill could tell that Hawke tried to hold back at first.

At some point during their negotiations, both the Knight Commander and First Enchanter had appeared in the throne room. They were just in time to watch his fight with the Arishok. It made Merrill nervous to see their eyes hang on Hawke's every move. Orsino had seemed aware that Hawke was a free mage, but what would the Knight Commander try to do if he demonstrated his full power here?

Hawke wielded his bladed staff like a spear for a time-and he was savage with it-but the dark wood of the weapon wasn't durable enough to block a direct blow from his opponent's giant sword.

The Arishok was no easy target. It quickly became apparent that even with barriers and enhancements, the Qunari leader outclassed Hawke in stamina and strength.

To compensate, Hawke was forced into a dance of quick sprints and rolls in order to avoid a fatal strike. It used too much energy, and provided no openings. Before long, he began to break from his minimal magic approach.

The first time he Fadestepped, the whole room gasped—Merrill included.

She'd seen him do it countless times before, but the fact that he'd used the skill in front of so many unsuspecting spectators was jarring. The pressure to hide her own magical ability from the common folk was so ingrained in her, that seeing it used in public felt like a terrible sort of dream.

Hawke flashed into being by the Arishok's elbow, and tore at the Qunari's side with the sharp edge of his blade.

The cut was not a weak one, but the steel rebounded off the other warrior's body in a way that reminded Merrill of striking against a rock.

The Arishok snarled out a laugh as Hawke flitted away, frowning. The general scratched at the cut Hawke had left in his side as if it were a bite from a bug. "If you mean to kill me, Hawke," the general chided, "you will have to do _much_ better than that."

The two clashed again and again, and Merrill watched, helpless as the battle turned further and further from Hawke's favor.

He'd gained an advantage of speed with his magic, but every time he broke apart from his target, it was clear that he was tiring. Sweat shown on his skin, and his breathing was haggard. She remembered that he'd been awake all through the night: fighting at the docks, and then carrying her.

The realization made her sick.

Even at his full strength, this fight would have been a challenge, and here Hawke was, basically running on fumes.

If Hawke himself noticed his disadvantage, he didn't show it. His expression stayed calm; his eye alight with unfaltering concentration.

His spells gained in intensity.

Where he'd hardly used any at the beginning of the battle, soon he was hurling ice and lightning with nary a care for their surroundings.

Most of the Kirkwall nobility had huddled to the farthest corners of the room. They cowered, crying and praying to whatever gods they kept that a stray blast didn't catch them in the crossfire. Disgruntled murmurings ran throughout the Qunari ranks as well. Hawke's magic even made them afraid.

Merrill could not bring herself to look at the Knight Commander. If Hawke survived this fight, there was no way the Templar Order would ever let him be. Would they try to arrest him? The fear that they might attempt to make him Tranquil simmered within her, but she forced it away. Hawke would never allow that.

The Arishok did not seem overly concerned with his opponent's spellcasting. Instead, he fought with a manic sort of ferocity, snarling and bellowing out taunts every time Hawke barely dodged a blow.

Merrill let out a yelp as the Arishok's charging horns missed impaling Hawke's torso by a fraction of a hair.

Hawke rolled away clutching at his side. She could see furious red blood seeping through his fingers, and he left crimson handprints on the tile when he made to stand.

"You have fought well, Hawke," The Arishok jeered, straightening from his lunge. "But this is as far as you go."

The Arishok lurched forward again, and Hawke whipped his staff about, casting back-to-back spells as he tried to stop the general's advance.

 _Force Push, Horror, Chain Lightning, Mind Blast, Winter's Grasp._

The display was nothing short of incredible. His mana reserves must have been pushed to their absolute limits, but only _just_ did his barrage manage to halt the warrior's rampage.

The Arishok hacked at the ice locking his steps, freeing himself too quickly for the mage to even catch his breath.

"I had named you _basa-lit_ ," the Qunari said, growling in frustration, "but you are truly _saarebas_. I have never seen one of your skill before. I am doing Thedas a great service in seeing you culled!"

He lunged again on the last word, his massive blade moving so fast that Merrill's eyes lost sight of it. The viciousness of the swing must have surprised Hawke too, because it caught him even as he Fadestepped away. His staff went ricocheting across the room, and he flashed the opposite direction, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Arishok's steel.

His right arm was gushing blood now too. It hung limp by his side, staining the stone. The focused expression he wore when fighting was contorted in pain.

"Hawke!" Merrill cried, unable to restrain her fear. She knew that Aveline was still holding her tightly, but she couldn't feel the woman's arms. Her whole body was numb with panic.

This couldn't be happening! It couldn't end like this; Hawke couldn't lose!

...

The Arishok heard Merrill's plea and smirked.

"Your woman cries for you," he goaded. "How sad do you think she will be when your head no longer has a pair of shoulders?"

Hawke caught a glimpse of Merrill's frightened face in the crowd. He saw the fear in her eyes, and the doubt. She thought he was going to die.

Hawke gripped the deep gash on his arm, and released a long, heavy breath. His side contorted from the effort, and he remembered that he was injured there too. Was _all_ the blood on the floor his?

Perhaps Merrill was right.

He should never have dragged this on. The Arishok was strong, but he was far from invincible. The old Qunari wore the damage well, but his skin was covered in cuts. There were burns on his chest from Hawke's elemental spells, and a glaze in his eyes from Hawke's subversive ones.

The general might have made less of a mess, but they were both eager for this fight to end.

If he cast one more spell—the _right_ spell—victory was not impossible. He could win. …If he didn't mind making a sacrifice or two….

 _It can be done._

Hawke heard the voice in his head, seeming to radiate from the darkness behind his bandaged eye.

 _But you will have to_ commit _._

Ignoring his wounds, the mage took another deep breath, summoning every dredge of power he possessed, and also some that was not entirely his own.

 _That's it._

The voice cooed.

Hawke tuned out its words, focusing on the foe in front of him. His vision started to flare white hot as rage and magic flooded him. He tightened his grip on his injured arm, causing more scarlet droplets to spill onto the floor.

"Now you are serious," the Arishok snarled, noticing the change. "Let's end this! Come at me with all you have!"

The oxman charged a final time, but Hawke was ready.

The qunari let out a howl as the blood in his veins began to boil. His footsteps faltered as his muscles rent themselves from his bones. Helpless to defend against an internal assault, his massive body crumpled and seized. When it ended, he lay gasping on the dais, unable to move as Hawke made his beleaguered approach.

"You are defeated," Hawke grunted, looking down on the wounded general's face.

"What did you do?" the Arishok gasped, blood spilling from his lips.

Hawke frowned at the question. It didn't matter what he'd done. He'd won. "Will you keep your word?"

The Arishok spat on the ground, but snarled, "My word is my honor. As promised, my soldiers will leave the woman and this dung heap in your hands."

Hawke closed his eye, relieved. "Thank you."

The Arishok trembled violently as death crept upon him. "You… you are a demon," he gulped.

The mage nodded, "I know."

"T-this is not the way it should have ended. This... this should be _you_."

Hawke attempted to lift his battered arm, but could not. The whole left side of his tunic was soaked from where he'd been gored. "I know," he assured the qunari, "...but I can't die yet. I have an oath to keep."

"An oath that allows you to... cheat your mortality..." he coughed. "Must be a blessing."

"No..." Hawke sighed. "It is a curse."

The Arishok's mouth twisted into a final sneer, and then his life escaped him in a shallow rasp.

The room was silent as a crypt for two long seconds, and then it erupted into a cacophony of cheers.

All of the nobles that had been hiding in the corners of the rooms leapt from the walls. They were shaking hands and singing. Shouting and patting themselves on the back.

Hawke thought it was fascinating that they were already acting as if they hadn't been pissing their breeches moments before.

Perhaps that was for the best though, he mused. If they felt like they'd saved themselves, maybe they'd forget all about him.

Gentle hands gripped his cloak, and then Merrill's bright eyes were right in front of his own. She looked frightened and happy at the same time. His vision was blurring, and it bothered him. He wanted to see her clearly.

"You did it, Hawke!" she told him. "They're leaving! Isabela's saved! We're all saved! Thanks to you!"

She meant the words in earnest, but the premise wasn't true. If they'd done what he wanted, he wouldn't have been involved. The Arishok would have warred unopposed, and Kirkwall would have been destroyed.

Deciding to stay had been her plan. She deserved the credit.

He tried to tell her so, but the room had begun to spin. He staggered forward, catching himself on the elf's slight shoulders. "Hawke?" she gasped. She struggled under his weight, but wouldn't let go of him when he tried to pull away.

"Hawke!" she repeated, louder.

He tried to look at her, to calm her, but he couldn't find her face. The room was going dark.

"He's lost too much blood!" he could hear her shouting. "Aveline, get Anders! First Enchanter, please help!"

There were more voices and yelling, but it sounded like it was underwater. Sunken and far away.

"Stay with me, Hawke," Merrill's voice pleaded through the darkness. "I _can't_ lose you. Stay with me! Please."

She meant every word, and he wanted terribly to wipe away her tears.

As the last of his consciousness left him, he mumbled for her ears alone: "It will be okay."


	22. Chapter 22

Time passed in a whirlwind after that.

The city had been badly damaged by the Qunari assault, but the honor-bound warriors had held true to their Arishok's promise, and left Kirkwall after his death.

Hawke managed to recover from his wounds. Orsino and Anders had both declared his prospects grim, but the man defied them with the speed of his recovery.

When he eventually returned to the streets, the city lifted him in triumph.

Merrill had been afraid that-after witnessing his battle with the Arishok-Kirkwall would demonize his magic abilities, but for some reason, they didn't. Even as tensions between the Templars and the Circle grew, Hawke stood apart-the _one_ person in the Free Marshes for whom magic did not matter at all.

She didn't know exactly how it started, but people began calling him the city's "Champion". He was exalted and revered perhaps more than Viscount Dumar had ever been.

She was thrilled that he was recovered, and that his new title seemed able to protect him from retaliation by the Templar order.

She was happy for him….

And yet… something else had changed.

She'd visited Hawke's manor frequently to try and see him since the qunari siege, but she found him nearly as difficult to pin down as he had been when he'd first returned from the Deep Roads, all those years ago.

He'd returned to his reclusion, she thought. And it pained her even more than it had the first time.

Sure, she understood why he might want to avoid the throngs of cityfolk who adorned him with cheers and praises every time he left his home, but she could not quite shake the hurt it caused her feelings when she thought that he seemed to be avoiding _her_ too.

She was not some raving fan; she was his friend… and, for a moment, it had sort of felt like she might be even slightly more than that.

Hawke's words when he'd been wounded had seemed so kind. So specially intended for her.

But maybe that had just been her imagination...

After she'd returned with the Tome of Koslun, Hawke and Isabela seemed to be back on cordial terms. Merrill had seen them together, in passing. She had a feeling he was inviting the pirate out on adventures he overlooked _her_ for. Maybe he was inviting the woman to other things too.

Merrill knew that her friends possibly rekindling an old flame should have made her happy. But it didn't.

It made her feel sluggish and sulky.

Before, she'd felt respected when Hawke had left her to her own to work on the mirror, but now she just felt avoided or forgotten. The feelings made it difficult to focus on the Eluvian, or anything else. When she was alone for _too_ long it sometimes felt as if her head might explode.

Templar patrols crowded the streets as she walked towards High Town, but Merrill kept her eyes on the road beneath her feet and tried to move at a pace that was neither too slow, nor too suspiciously fast.

The holy soldiers had been everywhere of late. Meredith might not have been able to do anything to Hawke outright, but she was certainly making her presence and disapproval of him known.

Merrill had been terrified that the soldiers might be searching for her too, for a time. Meredith had seen her face, after all. The Knight Commander had seen what she was, and the elf did not think that Hawke's new mantle could extend to protect _her_ from the Order, if she was being hunted.

That fear had eventually passed though, as patrolling troops continued to ignore her, and she continued to sleep safely in her bed.

It seemed the Knight Commander had forgotten entirely about her existence in the city. Another small blow to her ego.

Swallowing a sigh, Merrill rounded the corner to the plaza. Then her footsteps stopped.

A huge crowd was gathered in front of the door to Hawke's mansion.

Merrill drew back a ways into the shadow of a nearby building, listening carefully to the words the First Enchanter was shouting from his parapet.

The old mage's public speeches were becoming more heated, and more frequent, and they had begun to make her uncomfortable. His calls for action were beginning to sound more and more like calls for violence. Hadn't there already been enough fighting during the qunari revolt?

Why couldn't everyone just get along?

"I know you fear us!" Orsino was shouting; his arms spread wide to calm a crowd that couldn't decide whether to boo or cheer. "But you have seen the chaos of Meredith's reign! Will you allow it to continue unchecked?"

A cold voice cut over the cries of the crowd, and made the hairs rise on the back of Merrill's neck.

"Return to your homes!" The Knight Commander snapped. "This farce is over."

The flaxen-haired woman still looked every bit as intimidating as she had the morning Merrill had first encountered her. Her red cape billowed behind her as she and her squad of hunters strode into the square.

People listening to Orsino speak began to panic, pushing to put distance between themselves and the advancing soldiers. Others fought to do the opposite—urging the guards to knock the protesters down a few pegs. Merrill's pulse started to race, and she edged a few steps further into the shadows, regretting her decision to come here.

The First Enchanter, to his credit didn't seem to lose his nerve. "I will not be silenced!" he shouted. "Some would hear us."

Meredith scoffed at him, her thin lips teasing at a smile. "You think so?"

Her harsh gaze seemed to catch on something over the First Enchanter's shoulder, and her smile fell. "Ah, well," she remarked. "Here now is the man you've been looking for, Orsino: Serah Hawke. Do you truly think he wishes to hear your babble?"

Merrill's heart skipped a beat at the Knight Commander's words, and she was stumbling forward to get a better view of the plaza before she'd thought better of it.

Sure enough, Hawke was there, visible at the very edge of the crowd.

He wore new armor that glinted in the sunlight. The sigil of his mother's house fastened the black cloak about his shoulders, and he wore a leather pauldron that was decorated with the crest of his father's. He looked half a king, save for the hood that cast shadows on his face, and the ever-present covering over his damaged eye.

Merrill wondered if it was the distance that made him appear somewhat more gaunt than he'd been since she'd last seen him. Had he been eating properly? Getting enough sleep?

Orsino started talking again, interrupting the elf's thoughts.

"You are Kirkwall's Champion," he said directly to the man, "but you are also a mage. You must have some opinion on these matters."

"Yes, _Champion_ ," Meredith spat. "Tell us what you think we should do."

Hawke stared back at her, his golden eye unnerving. "…I think you should stop bickering in front of my house."

In another lifetime, the man's statement might have sounded like a joke, but the way he said the sentence now was definitely a threat. And both of the city officials heard it.

Meredith inhaled sharply. "Impudent—" she began.

Orsino interrupted her. "Hawke, you cannot continue to turn an apathetic eye on your brethren!"

The Knight Commander's expression grew wild, and for a horrible moment Merrill though she might strike him. "Keep reminding me that he is an apostate, First Enchanter, and I will treat him as such!"

"You might try," Hawke told her, blunt.

Meredith's face went pale, and Merrill could see the muscles in her neck straining even at a distance. Orsino however let out a strangled laugh.

"Yes!" he encouraged, "Yes! Exactly, Hawke! Defend your freedom! Surely you _must_ be sympathetic to those who desire the same privilege!"

If the First Enchanter was expecting Hawke to side with him though, he was quickly disappointed. "I do not pity those too weak to stand for themselves."

The Knight Commander took her turn to laugh, while the head of the Kirkwall Circle sputtered, "If we are weak, Hawke, help make us strong! Help us to—"

"Help you to _what_ , old man?" Meredith cried, drowning out whatever the older mage had been about to say. "Overthrow the Chantry? Destroy the Circle? _One_ more word, Orsino, and, so help me, I will Annul all of you on charge of treason!"

Gasps and whispers began to whisper though the crowd as Orsino turned to face her. "You would presume to kill all of us for merely voicing complaints?" he choked, "You would not dare!"

"I will do what I must!"

"My, my," said a soothing voice, approaching the rapidly panicking mob. "Such a commotion."

Most of the plaza turned to watch Grand Cleric Elthina approach the arguing First Enchanter and Knight Commander, but Merrill continued to try and read the expression on Hawke's face.

She might have been staring at a blank wall, for all the emotion she saw there. Did he realize the effect his words were having on these people? It made her anxious to see him so impassive.

More than anything, she wanted the crowd around them to leave. She wanted to close the distance between herself, and the place where Hawke stood. She wondered if he would still look so cold if she were able to get close.

She started to move as the leaders of the city came together at the center of the square. "Grand Cleric," The Knight Commander was saying. "This mage incites rebellion. I am dealing with the issue."

"Oh, Orsino," Elthina breathed, looking at the old elf, her words full of remorse. "So angry… Do you really think this is wise?"

The First Enchanter dropped his gaze, "…N-no." he stammered.

Elthina smiled softly at his answer, and gestured to a few of the templar soldiers the Knight Commander had brought to the square. "Young men, will you please escort the First Enchanter back to the Tower? Gently."

The soldiers and their ward began to comply, but Meredith cut forward in protest. "Grand Cleric!" she demanded. "He should be clapped in irons! Made an example of!"

"Enough, Meredith," Elthina returned, her words hard as lead beneath a veil of velvet. "Your behavior here demeans us all. You will go back to the Gallows and cool your head, like a good girl."

Merrill paused for a moment in her sneaking closer to Hawke, hardly able to believe what she'd just heard. All around her people had begun to whisper again. This time, a few of the braver souls even had the nerve to snicker.

Scolded and shamed, the Knight Commander did not seem to be able to leave the plaza fast enough. The few soldiers in her squad that did not escort Orsino had to chase after her, scuttling in a way Merrill didn't think templars could.

Recognizing the end of the drama, the mob of people in the street began to dissipate as well. Merrill was able to edge towards Hawke more quickly, but just as she was about to reach him, the Grand Cleric approached the man instead, and she hung back, self-conscious.

"Serah Hawke," Elthina murmured, her voice low enough that Merrill could only barely make it out. "There must be peace in Kirkwall."

Hawke didn't blink. "Why are you telling me?"

The old cleric searched his face, as if she were confused by his response. "Because you have the power to bring it about."

"I am no politician."

"But you are our Champion."

"You people created that title," Hawke scoffed, his expression pinching for the first time. "I do not want it. It means nothing to me."

Elthina watched him, her clear eyes unwaveringly kind.

Hawke looked away from her and grumbled, "The fate of this city means nothing to me."

Merrill's heart sank, but the Grand Cleric did not seem daunted.

Instead she adjusted her stance so that she was back in Hawke's line of sight, and said with a shrewd smile, "You say that, serah, and yet something about this place motivated you to defend it from the qunari. _Something_ here must mean more to you than you are willing to admit. I have no doubt that you will find the strength to protect it again. When there is need."

Hawke frowned as the Grand Cleric took her leave.

Realizing that she may not get a better opportunity, Merrill steeled herself, and sidled up to him, clearing her throat softly so that he would not be startled.

"She reminds me of the Keeper;" she told him. "Thinks she knows everything, doesn't she?"

Hawke's uncovered eye turned to see her face, and the elf was surprised by the dull exhaustion lurking within.

The impression of weariness lasted for only a moment however, and then he turned to face her fully. "What are you doing here, Merrill?"

She knew it had not been _that_ long since she'd last heard the man's rumbling voice. There was no good reason why it should be so mesmerizing to hear him say her name; no reason his spoken words should make her lose all of hers.

"I-I'm just checking in," she mumbled, trying to recollect her senses. "You haven't been by to see the Eluvian at all recently. I was wondering if you were sick. Or maybe out of town…."

"I have not been by," Hawke told her, "because you have made no progress."

The curt statement stung.

Its truth was undeniable, but maybe she might be able to accomplish something if she could stop herself from incessantly worrying over _him_.

"W-well," she stammered. "I… I thought that one time I had a breakthrough… b-but, I… um…."

The man exhaled as she lost track of her words again, and began to cross the square to go home.

"W-wait!" she called after him.

He did, for a fraction of a second—that depleted look back in his gaze. "What is it, Merrill?"

She racked her brain for a convincing reason why he should continue talking with her. Why he should stay beside her, or go someplace with her, instead of disappearing back inside his fortress of a house.

She couldn't think of a single one, other than that it was what she very desperately wanted.

She didn't think that would be enough.

"Uh…" she struggled.

Hawke looked at the ground. "I have to go," he told her.

…

Merrill ran her index finger around the lip of her mug.

She knew she'd probably finished only about a quarter of the beverage, but she felt drunk. Or, at least, it felt like her head was being crushed by bricks, and her heart was hollow. That must be sort of similar. Right?

A familiar laugh sounded from across the table, and the elf cautiously lifted her temple from the wood. The rest of the Hanged Man came back into focus, and the elf realized with some disappointment that she wasn't drunk at all. She would have to keep trying.

"I thought that was you, Daisy," Varric chuckled, interrupting her melancholy. "Seems you only ever come around this place when you're all out of sorts."

Merrill took a deep breath, and straightened up in her seat. "Please, Varric. Don't tease."

"I would never tease you, Daisy," he promised, taking a swig from him flask. "Even I'm not _that_ mean."

"Varric," she whined.

"I'm sorry," he laughed, "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself. But now I'm all business; I swear."

She glowered at him, and took a small sip of her own drink.

"Are you feeling lonely again?" he prompted. "You know we're all around to talk to now. Isabela's just right over there. You two are close. She might be a better shoulder to lean on than little old me."

Merrill gazed in the direction he'd gestured, and watched her pirate friend schmoozing with a couple of dockworkers near the bar. She couldn't tell which of the two men the woman was most interested in. Perhaps she meant to bed both.

Isabela's flirting had never bothered her before in the slightest, but watching her now made the elf irritated and sour. She took a larger gulp of mead than she intended attempting to drown the resentful feeling and the guilt that accompanied it.

"You okay?" Varric asked, concerned when she started to choke.

"I-I'm fine," she coughed, embarrassed. "And Isabela's busy. Besides, I don't think my problem is something she could help with. She might even be _part_ of the problem, actually…. I don't quite feel like myself."

"Well, in that case, tell Uncle Varric what's wrong," the dwarf smirked.

She rolled her eyes. "You're incorrigible."

He chuckled again. "That's one word for it."

"It's Hawke," she admitted with a sigh. She rested one elbow on the table, and dropped her head into her hand. "I'm worried about Hawke. Between Meredith, and the First Enchanter, he's being pulled every which way. Even the Grand Cleric wants something from him. But ever since the siege, he hasn't been himself. He's moody, and reserved, and harsh-"

"Um," Varric interrupted with a snort, "I hate to cut you off, Daisy, but all those traits you're listing sound _exactly_ like the Hawke I know. Are you sure we're talking about the same person?"

"This isn't a joke," Merrill pleaded with him. "Yes, Hawke's quiet, and sometimes a little prickly—"

"' _Sometimes'_?" the dwarf laughed. "And I thought Blondie's delusions were bad."

Merrill bristled at his humor, feeling flustered and embarrassed. Varric wasn't taking her concerns seriously at all. She should never have brought them up.

"The bottom line here, Daisy," Varric said—his amusement subsiding, and his smile becoming more genuine, "is that you care an awful lot about Hawke, don't you?"

The elf felt the tips of her ears start to heat up. "I care about him a perfectly normal amount."

"Right," Varric acknowledged, nursing his drink.

"I do!"

"I'm not arguing with you."

Merrill's own fingers clutched her mug so tight she wondered if she might dent the tin. "And even if I did care…" she heard herself saying, " _slightly_ more than what might be considered strictly friendly… nothing would come of it."

The final statement came out of her in a squeak, and settled on the table between them.

"Why do you say that?" Varric asked after a moment.

"Well…" she admitted, past the point of no return, "Isabela. For starters."

Varric shrugged. "If you'll excuse the pun: I think that ship has sailed."

Merrill frowned, but her chest felt inexplicably lighter. "How do you know?"

"You can't actually be asking me that," Varric grimaced. "You _must_ remember what they were like before we all went underground. Have you seen them do anything simila-ever-since we've gotten back?"

She cringed at the dwarf's reminder, wishing she could withdraw the question. The memories of Hawke and Isabela's behavior before the Deep Roads expedition did nothing to improve her mood.

Varric might be right that the pair no longer behaved in such a… public… fashion; but Hawke certainly didn't do those things with _her_ either.

Did she actually want him to?

The thought sent her heart into seizures and her face felt so hot she thought it might spark flames.

"My point _was going to be_ ," the dwarf continued, obviously trying to talk over his own awkward mental images, "that I don't think you should dismiss your chances right out of the gate."

"I'll never understand why," he said, "But you like that mad bastard."

"Varric…"

"And I think that a touch of your kindness could be exactly the thing that he needs."

The dwarf offered his drink out to her in a toast, and Merrill was stunned for a moment, moved by the warmth of his praise.

"Th…Thank you, Varric," she mumbled.

"Any time, Daisy."

Her mug met the side of his flask with a comforting 'clink'.


	23. Chapter 23

Merrill went back and forth about it for a few more hours, but by the time she'd finished her drink, she'd also worked up the courage to return to Hawke's manor.

Her hand trembled as she raised it to the knocker, but somehow she managed to make the mallet rise and fall.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Bodahn answered the door within seconds. He seemed accustomed to his employer's odd callers.

"Ah, Merrill!" The older dwarf grinned. "Welcome. Come in." He beckoned her inside the mansion's foyer, closing the door behind her.

The elf became shy when Marro approached the entryway too. The big black dog padded into the foyer to sniff at her, and then lifted his saffron eyes to consider her face.

To her immense surprise, she thought she saw the dog's nub tail twitching as he turned to lead them all into the main room.

"Master Hawke is in his study," Bodahn told her, gesturing towards the first door on the left. "Ever the bookworm," he winked at her, "but he'll pardon the intrusion."

"You think so?" she wondered.

Bodahn shrugged. "He did not say to turn callers away."

She giggled nervously as the dwarf returned to where his son was tinkering by the hearth.

They were not exactly the words of confidence she might have hoped for, but they were likely the best she'd ever get.

Trying to maintain her small bubble of determination, Merrill took one final breath to steady her nerves, and then nudged open the study door.

The library was every bit as impressive as she remembered it, but in considerable disarray. Books and parchments were everywhere; strewn across every surface. Piles of tomes and pages were even jumbled around the floor.

At the very center of all the mess was Hawke, curled up almost like a child in his massive reading chair, fully immersed in a text. He had not heard her come in, and for one glorious moment she caught a glimpse of someone who was almost a stranger. She had not seen Hawke like this in years.

The spell broke as the door's latch snapped behind her.

Merrill started, cursing her slow reactions and daydreaming mind. If she'd been thinking clearly she could have caught the door, and watched the man a while longer.

But Hawke had stopped reading abruptly at the noise. His long legs stretched out from under him as he marked his page, and reached to drop the book atop a specific pile.

"Hello…" she smiled, clutching her hand to her chest. "I'm sorry to intrude."

Hawke stood. The way he was scrutinizing her seemed almost wary, and she felt guilty. She shouldn't have been staring at him, unannounced. It was a weird thing to do. Nobody would be happy about that.

"This isn't a good time," he said.

"I'll only be a moment," she promised, coming a couple steps closer.

As she moved, her gaze happened to fall upon a parchment that was covered in familiar looking hieroglyphs.

"What are you working on?" she wondered, craning her neck to get a better look.

The scroll whipped away from her gaze faster than she could blink. Hawke coiled the writing tightly, and tossed it over to another pile, where it rolled out of sight. "Is that why you're here?" he demanded.

"N-no…" she stammered, surprised by his reaction. "I…um. No. I came because… well. I had a—I want to talk to you about… Well… Is everything all right?"

"Merrill," Hawke scowled.

"I'm sorry," she gulped. "I just—You see, I'm here because… well to tell you—ask you—I don't… um, it's more that—Let me start over. I—"

Hawke watched her struggle with a deepening frown. His gold eye did not seem tired, like it had that afternoon. It was bright and burning now, and she could hardly think for the way his intense focus on her made her feel.

"Mythal, this is so hard," she crumbled. "Nevermind. I shouldn't have come."

Stinging with frustration and embarrassment, she started to flee. She might have sprinted for the door if a strong grip hadn't caught her upper arm as she turned, nearly yanking her off her feet.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed y—oooo!"

Merrill lurched backwards, and slipped sideways on a stack of papers, catching herself on Hawke's chest.

"I'm sorry!" They both said at the same time.

Merrill peeked up at him with one eye, bewildered. What had just happened? Hawke seemed rigid, frozen—as if he were confused too.

"What did you say?" she squeaked, not believing what she'd just heard.

"I…" he repeated, backing away from her. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that."

She couldn't take her eyes from his face. "Hawke… are you okay?"

"Yes," he snapped, looking down. "You should go."

"I-I was about to," she mumbled, still watching him, "But you stopped me." She could hear the high-pitched tremor in her own voice, but couldn't still her heart enough to control it. "Why did you stop me?"

Hawke's jaw clenched.

"I wanted to hear what your were going to say…" he said grudgingly. The sentence seemed as if it were dragged from him. Like he'd wanted to keep quiet, but had been compelled to do otherwise.

For several seconds, Merrill couldn't think to do anything other than blink.

He wanted to hear what she'd been about to say? So much so that he'd physically stop her from leaving? On the surface, that admittance excited her, but deep down she knew that something was wrong. This wasn't how Hawke normally behaved.

"Well, I…" she breathed. "What I… I was going to say that I…"

She realized that she was closing the distance between them again as she stammered. This was a bad idea. Hawke's behavior was off, and she shouldn't be playing into the moment.

She knew she was being reckless, and yet, she _wanted_ to tell him. She wanted him to know how she felt, and if she left now, she didn't know if she'd ever work up the nerve to try and tell him again.

Hawke had endured so much of the world's wickedness, and his fortitude was inspiring to her. Watching him succeed against insurmountable odds was mesmerizing. He stood, at times, like a god among men, and yet in his private moments he was also so mortal, so vulnerable. And so incredibly alone.

She thought she could relate to that loneliness, and she wanted to ease it. She wanted to know him better than anyone else ever would. She wanted him to need her… the way she needed him.

"Hawke… I was going to say that I think I'm in love with—mmm!"

Like a snake, Hawke's hand shot forward, sealing itself over her face. His grip smothered the words she'd been about to say.

The man's eye glowed like an ember as it fixed on hers, and he began maneuvering her backwards, forcefully guiding her unwilling feet back toward the study's door.

"You need to leave," he snarled. "Right now."

"But Hawke," she pleaded, fighting around his hand, "I'm sorry, please—"

"What are you _apologizing_ for?" he demanded, sounding furious.

She could feel tears building at the bridge of her nose as his abrupt rejection began to sink in. "I didn't mean to make you angry, I-I just wanted to be honest about—"

"I'm not _angry_!" Hawke barked, shoving her the last few stumbling steps backwards into the wall beside the door. "Merrill, I'm _dangerous_!"

The elf hiccupped, surprised by his words.

"I don't care," she choked, trying to wipe her eyes.

The man balked at her. "T-this isn't a joke!"

"I'm being serious," she fought, finding her voice. "This whole world is dangerous. You are no more so than anybody else!"

"That's not true," Hawke growled, clutching the bandaged side of his head. "You know what I am, Merrill. I know Anders told you. I'm not human anymore; I'm an—"

"You aren't," she denied, vehement. "You made a deal with a spirit; you aren't possessed by a demon! It's different! You have your spirit under control!"

The man stared at her, the white showing all around his undamaged eye. She realized his pupil was dilated, and the gold ring of his iris seemed more… citron… than it ought.

"You're _wrong_."

Hawke's breathing was shallow.

She could feel it hot on her skin, because when he'd pushed her back against the wall, he hadn't moved away. He loomed over her now, his face so close that she could've pressed her lips to his if she had thought to lift onto her toes.

"You can't scare me away, Hawke," she argued instead. "Whatever you think of yourself, I'm not afraid. I know the type of man that you are, and I know you would never—"

"Merrill, you do not know me at _all_ ," the man snarled.

Before she realized what he was doing, Hawke ripped the dark covering from the left side of his head.

The black shock of his hair ended in a harsh line of scarred flesh, right above where his eyebrow should have been.

The old wound that fanned over his face looked almost like it was still burning, but Merrill hardly noticed. Terror fixed her attention on the orb that stared out from the socket where one of Hawke's beautiful eyes used to rest.

The thing that lurked there now glowed an acidic yellow-green, its pupil dilating sideways like a goat.

It was too big for the shape of Hawke's face, and gave Merrill the horrible impression that it was consuming him; seeping like an infection across his skin.

Instinctively, she tried to look away, but Hawke caught her chin, craning her neck up so that she had to acknowledge the sight.

"Look, Merrill," he demanded. "Tell me what you see."

Her words failed her.

Hawke expression contorted, and he finally pulled away. Whipping around, he sent a huge pile of books flying across the room with the force of his mind.

"I'm _not_ what you think I am," he growled at her. "I am _not_ human. And I am _not_ in control."

"You—" the elf tried, her voice coming out in a rasp.

"I want you to leave!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Hawke's whole body recoiled. Crying out, he clawed at his face, where citron flames were billowing from the uncovered demonic eye.

"Hawke!" Merrill gasped, starting towards him before her head could catch up to her heart. "What's happening?!"

The other mage's Mindblast hit her hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. She collided with the doorframe, and fell down hard.

It hurt.

He hadn't held back, and that realization caused her more pain than the splintered wood, and rising bruise on her shoulders.

" _Leave_!" Hawke roared, seizing his face with one hand, and the edge of a desk with the other. His knuckles were white. "Do not come back here! Do not _ever_ come back here!"

The citron flames weren't fading. They leapt between Hawke's fingers, and the horrible yellow eye darted about in his skull, like it was trying to peer at her from around the barrier of his hand.

Scared and confused, Merrill scrambled for the door handle.

Intense trembling made it difficult for her to direct her hands.

She wanted to help Hawke, but she didn't know how. The creature before her was frightening and ugly, and it had hurt her. She didn't know what to do.

And so she ran.

She almost bowled Bodahn over as she burst out of the room, gasping back tears. The dwarf called something after her as she fled, but she couldn't make it out, and didn't dare stop to ask him to repeat himself.


	24. Chapter 24

The moment Merrill was out of sight, Hawke caved to the agony.

It tore through him. Every vein and nerve in his body surged with lightning—raw energy of the Fade burning nearly as badly as it had the first time in the Deep Roads.

He collapsed beneath the weight of it, knocking scrolls and books from the desk as he sank to the ground.

 _LIAR!_

The voice screamed behind his mutated eye.

"It wasn't," he pleaded, "I _wanted_ her to leave."

 _We lie the loudest when we lie to ourselves!_

"I didn't want her to see this!"

 _Lying still. You are no better than those you despise._

Hawke groaned, trying to accept the anguish instead of fighting it. He'd brought this upon himself, and resisting would only make it worse. "She would not have left."

 _Then let her stay._

The words chilled him, and his feverish body started to shake.

 _She has an honest heart. When she speaks to us, she never lies. I want her._

Hawke forced himself to sit up. The simple task felt monumental, and it was nothing compared to the chore of pushing the voice away.

The battle was a mental one, but more exhausting than any physical fight he'd ever had. Even the qunari Arishok had not seemed so impossible to move.

By degrees, the flagellation began to ease.

"I will never," Hawke grunted, when he'd fought the beast back enough to breath. "I will _never_ let you have her."

 _You wanted Truth._ The voice reminded him with a bite, sounding nearly as exhausted as he was. _And in return, you promised Truth. She is pure, and I am owed._

"You will have what you asked for when our pact was made," Hawke snarled. "Not more. Not less. Not Merrill."

 _We shall see._

The barrier in his mind that kept them separate slammed shut like a jailor's cell, but the lock had been broken. He _had_ to find another way to keep it sealed.

Someone was speaking to him in the world outside his psyche, and he let that plane slide back into focus. It was a belated attempt at modesty, but he still covered the possessed side of his face with his hand.

Bodahn was watching him with no small amount of concern.

"Are you back to yourself, serah?" the manservant asked, wringing his hands beneath his chin.

"Yes," Hawke rasped, letting his head sag against the leg of the desk.

Bodahn nodded, flustered. "I didn't realize you were unwell, my lord. I would not have sent the lass in."

Hawke reached limply for the black bandage that lay on the floor where he'd dropped it. He wished he'd realized it too, but it was much too late for regrets now.

"…I believe you gave her quite a fright," Bodahn, continued. "She left so fast—I wasn't able to explain."

"It's better that way," Hawke assured him. He pulled the covering back over the damaged half of his face, adjusting the bandage that at this point felt like a second skin. "She won't be safe if I am overtaken."

The manservant dropped his gaze. "Forgive me for saying so, serah, but I wonder if any of us will be."

Hawke drew a rattling breath, weighing the dwarf's words. "I will not stop you if you want to leave."

"I don't want to leave, young master," Bodahn told him. "I want you to keep resisting. I am no expert on such things, but I do believe that you can beat this."

"…Then summon Anders…" Hawke sighed, "and tell him it's getting worse."

…

Merrill ran like she had never run in her life.

She could hardly see for her sobs and her shivering, but her muscles remembered the route, and her feet did not stop flying until the door of her own home had slammed shut behind her.

She sank to the floor right inside the doorway, ignoring the ache in her shoulders as the hard wood slid over her back.

He'd hurt her. Hawke had hurt her, and he'd shouted. He didn't want to see her again. He didn't want her in his home. He didn't—how could she have ever thought that he might—

"Oh, breathe, _letha'lan_. Breathe," she gasped to herself, scrubbing salt from her eyes, while her heart hammered in her throat.

"What did you think would happen," she cried to the dark room. "You could tell he wasn't himself, and yet you—you pushed! His eye—!"

A fresh wave of trembling overtook her, and she curled into herself, her fingers knotted in her hair as she tried to make sense of what she'd just seen.

Whatever the spirit was, it had deformed him. Hawke had worn that bandage over his eye for _years_ ; had that monster always been lurking just underneath?

Anders and Varric had both spoken of a fire that had almost killed them when Hawke first made his pact with his spirit in the Deep Roads. Hawke himself come back from that expedition wounded, and a completely different person besides, but she'd credited that personality shift mostly to the consecutive deaths of Bethany and Carver.

Since then, she remembered the way the bandage had glowed when Hawke had killed the bloodmage who mutilated his mother. That terrible yellow fire had appeared then too, but it hadn't seemed corrupt at that time. It'd seemed justified.

Most recently, when Hawke had fought the Arishok—in that final turning point of the battle—he'd called upon the acidic strength again. She'd felt a twist in his magic then, and it had felt a _tad_ more tainted than before, but she'd thought it was because he'd powered the spell with blood.

How blind she had been, for not noticing the true progression happening in front of her.

It did not seem that Hawke had needed to draw upon the spirit's power _that_ often since he'd first made his pact, but it was blatant to her now that the demon claimed a toll whenever he was forced to. Whatever the spirit was, it was altering him. Destabilizing, and corroding him from within.

She had been an ignorant fool; and what could she do, now that she knew the truth?

Hawke had told her to leave, and never come back.

But before that, he'd also _stopped_ her from leaving.

The two entities within him were clearly at odds with what they wanted from her, and the most infuriating part of the whole mess was that she couldn't tell which was which.

She fought to her feet, and stormed towards her bedroom.

The sight of the Eluvian right inside the door heightened her rage, and she barely resisted the urge to kick the old wood, and all of the non-answers it continued to give her.

All she had been—both for herself, and for Hawke, up until this point—was useless. He'd told her to her face that she was naïve, and she hadn't listened. Whether she'd meant to or not, she'd been relying on him to solve all of her problems, and now he was struggling by himself, and the stupid mirror was still broken, and it was all because she had failed to carry out anything on her own.

Well, no more.

Hands finally steady, she changed her clothes.

She fished out, from her smattering of belongings, a beautiful set of white raiments she'd received from Marethari as a gift when she'd been named her First.

She'd never worn the armor before, because it'd felt too important for someone like her. Too momentous.

But she wanted to be the person who fit this outfit now.

Moving forward, she was going to be _more_ than the pitiful creature she had existed as up until this point. She was going to accomplish something herself. She was going to prove that she had the wherewithal to stand at Hawke's side, or she was going to die trying.

Fierce determination settled over her—an extra set of armor atop her new clothes. Invigorated, she tore around her room, gathering the few things she would need.

Potions and staff collected, she took one final look at the Eluvian, hoping it sensed the change in her, and knew its days of mystery were numbered.

"I'm going to fix you," she vowed to it. "And I'm going to fix Hawke too."

"I may not know how to go about it yet; but I have someone who's going to tell me."


	25. Chapter 25

As she left the Alienage, Merrill couldn't help but wonder if she would return.

She had made up her mind to do this, but she knew that determination would not necessarily protect her from winding up dead.

Allowing herself a wry smile, she clipped along the city streets that led toward the mountains. If she hurried, she might be able to make it to Sundermount before the dawn.

Preoccupied with her plans and actions, the elf turned a corner and ran headlong into a obstacle that yelped out in two voices as she went reeling.

"Ow," Merrill groaned, scrambling back to her feet. She didn't have time to be such a klutz!

"Merrill?" came a person's incredulous response.

The elf started at her name, looking more closely at the scene she'd just interrupted.

Aveline's eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed, and her hair ever so gently disheveled. When Merrill had run into them, the guard captain had jerked away, but her husband had been a bit slower to react. His arms were still wrapped around her hips, and he had a dazed look on his face.

Merrill felt her own cheeks begin to warm, and she put her hands over her eyes, wishing to unsee the whole scene. "I'm sorry."

"What are you doing out so late!" Aveline demanded, her voice flitting between octaves.

"Minding my own business," Merrill assured her, backing up blindly. "I'm sorry. I didn't see anything; I'll just be on my way—"

"'On your way' where?" the guard captain asked, starting to recover from her initial surprise.

Merrill cringed. The last thing she needed right now was for Aveline to try and talk her out of her decision... Or worse: attempt to follow along. "Um…" she fumbled, "just… away. It's fine. Have a good night."

"Merrill!" the woman called after her, slowing her escape. "Why do you have your staff with you? And what are you doing on _this_ road? Are you heading out of the city?"

The elf's heart began to hammer as she tried to come up with a response.

"And for the love of Andraste," the red-haired soldier hissed, "stop covering your eyes. Donnic and I weren't... we aren't doing anything. Anymore."

Merrill lowered her hands, still hesitant to raise her gaze. "Right," she said. "I—I know. Um… sorry."

"What's going on?" Aveline prompted again.

By now, she'd stepped fully away from the tall man beside her.

Donnic had never really said two words to Merrill before, but he seemed like a nice person, and an... affectionate husband. He was clearly a decent soldier too, because he'd recovered his wits as well, and was watching Merrill speak with the discerning eye of someone accustomed to looking out for trouble.

"I… well… Yes," the elf stammered. "I am leaving. But only for a little while; I'll be back soon."

"You're going alone?" Aveline wondered. "Has Hawke asked you to meet him somewhere?"

"No. Actually," Merrill clipped, feeling her chest constrict. "He's sent me away. Said he doesn't want to see me anymore."

The guard captain frowned, and Merrill cursed herself internally. Aveline didn't need to know that; it was only going to make her more nosy.

"I don't understand—," the woman began to say.

"It's nothing," the elf cringed, edging farther up the road. "Forget I said anything; I don't want to talk about it. Please… goodnight."

"But where are you going?"

"Just to Sundermount," Merrill groaned, hoping the woman would be satisfied with that answer and leave her alone.

No such luck. "Back to the Dalish?

"The clan will be long gone by now," Merrill said, averting her eyes. "I'm just going to look around. I want to see if they left something behind."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Aveline followed her a few paces. "At night, and by yourself? Wouldn't you rather have company?"

"I want to be _alone_ ," Merrill insisted. She turned her shoulders, and increased her speed. "Just leave me alone, Aveline!"

The guard captain watched the elf run away, surprised and concerned to see her friend acting so strange.

She would not have been necessarily _astounded_ to hear that Hawke had lashed out against one of the rest of them, but it bothered Aveline that he may have done so to Merrill.

That sort of behavior didn't match up with the man who'd carried the unconscious elf halfway across the city to get her away from danger, nor the man who'd pressed the same elf into _her_ arms—a frantic look in his eye as he distracted a raging warlord from Merrill's cries of dissent.

"My love?" Donnic murmured beside her, wishing to know her thoughts.

"I don't like this," she told him, trying to put together the pieces. "I don't like this at all."

"What do you want to do?"

She peered into his eyes, feeling a surge of gratitude, and a deeper urging she would have to satisfy later on. Her husband made it easy to slide between her public and private roles. In their intimate lives, they were equal and balanced, and in the field, he trusted and respected her lead. She didn't know what she'd done to be so lucky. Both in Wesley and Donnic, she'd only ever known good men.

"Finish up the patrol without me…" she directed, brushing her fingertips against the back of his hand. "There's something I want to investigate."

He nodded. "Shall I look for you at home?"

"Yes," she said, turning her feet toward Hightown. "But it might be awhile. I could very well get roped into one of Hawke's 'quests'."

…

The door to the Champion's manor did not open until Aveline had pounded on it several separate times. She could see the unmistakable glow of the hearth through the windows, and did not understand where the mage got off—trying to pretend like no one was home.

When the entrance finally did give way, Hawke's dwarven manservant held the crack only wide enough for his nose to poke through.

"Guard Captain?" he wondered. "It's the middle of the night."

He seemed to have no intention of letting her in, but Aveline would be damned if she let him turn her away. This whole ordeal was smelling fishier by the second, and her instincts were screaming that something dangerous was afoot.

She leaned her full strength into the door, plowing the dwarf backwards, even as he attempted to dig in his heels. "I know, Bodahn" she said. She let the wood close behind her as she helped the man to his feet. "And I'm sorry. But where is Hawke? I must speak with him immediately."

The dwarf danced around her as she started into the main living area. He kept trying to catch her arms, or get in front of her strides, but she struggled past him, determined to see whatever he was trying to keep hidden.

"He's asleep, serah," the dwarf pleaded. "And he is not well. I really must protest any intrusion!"

With a final effort, Aveline shoved her way into the grand hall.

Hawke was seated right there, beside the fire—very much awake. She'd expected as much, but she was surprised to find that Anders was there also, seemingly examining Hawke's old Deep Roads' wound.

When she'd entered, the blond mage had turned towards her. His step had put him in the way of her gaze, blocking her view as Hawke replaced the dark bandage he kept coiled over his injured eye.

The man did not stand to greet her, but he did nudge Anders to the side after he'd retied his covering, and leaned into the light so she could better see his face.

"It's all right, Bodahn," Hawke told his flustered housekeeper. "Whatever she has to say is clearly important. I'll listen to her speak."

"What is going on here?" Aveline frowned, glancing between the three of them, and not understanding how their behavior made any kind of sense.

Hawke sounded _exhausted_. He sounded bone-weary—like he'd just tried to carry Sundermount on his shoulders, and then sprinted the length of the Wounded Coast a few times for good measure. He looked gaunt and pale. Beside him, even Anders looked more than a sheet of a man, and she had not seen the healer look healthy since _long_ before the qunari revolt.

Marro was lying on top of Hawke's feet, and the dog's saffron glare matched Anders' scowl almost perfectly. Both of them shot daggers at her; looking for all the world like Hawke's condition was somehow her fault.

"W-What did you say to Merrill?" Aveline continued, not allowing herself to be shaken.

"This can wait until later," Anders snapped. "Hawke needs rest, and some time alone to—"

"…Why?" the man in question asked, interrupting whatever the healer had been about to rant.

Confused about which foreboding conversation to pursue, Aveline answered the Champion, "I just saw her. She was leaving the city."

A shadow flickered across Hawke's face, but then he looked away from her, and down to his hands. "That is for the best."

"You don't mean that," Aveline responded, annoyed. The way the man had interpreted her words seemed to imply that he thought Merrill wouldn't be returning. And he seemed to be convincing himself that that was fine.

"I do," Hawke said, looking back up. "If that was all you wanted to say, then I bid you goodnight."

"Hawke!"

Anders intercepted her when she tried to get closer to the man. She shook him off, glaring between the mages and wondering if they'd both gone insane.

"Well, if you won't go after her," she snapped, "I will."

"Leave her be," Hawke rejected, his voice hard.

"No," Aveline spat. "No, I won't. This whole scene reeks of something wicked, and I won't let someone _I_ care about wander off to their death while I can save them."

She spun on her heel, but Hawke called out to stop her before she could leave. "What do you mean, 'to their death'?"

"Merrill said she was going back to Sundermount," the guard captain growled at him.

"If the Dalish are still there," Hawke said, "they won't hurt her." The shadow has settled back over his features, adding a haunted edge to his exhaustion.

"She wasn't looking for the Dalish," Aveline explained. "She told me point-blank she didn't expect them to be there; she told me she was going back to look for something else. Alone, and _armed_ , in the middle of the night."

Hawke watched her closely for a moment, thinking, and then a slow realization seemed to come over him. She would not have thought he had any color left to lose, but his uncovered eye went wide, and she may have well been talking to a corpse.

"…She wouldn't do that," he breathed.

"Do what?" Aveline prodded, shaken by his uncharacteristic reaction. "Whatever it is you're thinking about, this is _Merrill_. And you know as well as I do that she very well _would_."

Hawke rose to his feet.

She'd been able to tell he was tired from the way he'd looked, and had been speaking, but she still was unprepared for the wavering way in which he attempted to stand.

Anders scurried to help him, and then tried to force the man to sit back down.

"You _can't_ do this right now," the blond mage protested, as Hawke struggled against his grip. "You absolutely _can't_."

"I have to," Hawke snarled, somehow succeeding in pushing the man away.

"I don't understand what's going on," Aveline frowned. "Hawke, are you ill?'

"Summon Fenris and Isabella," Hawke commanded Bodahn behind her, ignoring her question. "Tell them to meet me at the city gate."

The dwarf all but disappeared, scrambling to complete the request as fast as he could.

"I'll come too," Aveline volunteered.

"And me," Anders supplied.

Hawke shook his head, aggressive. "It has to be them."

Now that he was standing, he seemed a bit more steady on his feet. He crossed to the table by the door to collect his staff.

She expected him to strap it to his back, but instead he flipped it so that the long bladed end stuck up straight above his head. The modest decoration at what-was-usually the top clicked along the wood floor as he used the staff like a walking stick.

"You cannot go without me," Anders scoffed, watching the man hobble towards the door. "You'll collapse before you make it out of Hightown."

"Fine," Hawke growled.

"But not you," he insisted when Aveline tried to trail him as well.

She flared up, insulted. "Why not?"

Hawke turned to face her fully, and she took an unconscious step backwards to escape the strange glow in his eye.

"Because Merrill has gone to deal with a demon." His voice was a rasping whisper that made goosebumps rise on her skin. "And I am at the limits of my self-control. If this goes poorly, I will need executioners to take care of the mess.

Can I count on you to do _that_ again?"

His question hung between them, and she couldn't answer it. She felt the ghost of Wesley's hands on her own, and her gut churned with the memory of the start to a life she'd extinguished with a torturous thrust of her sword.

Around her, Anders and Hawke gathered their things.

She heard the door to the manor open and shut as they departed, but she did not leave herself for a very long time.


	26. Chapter 26

Their group reached the base of the mountain just after the sun had cleared the horizon-line of the Waking Sea.

Barely morning, Isabela thought, and the day was already ruined. It was one thing to be woken up in the middle of the night by Hawke's panicking manservant. It was another thing entirely to have the reason be because _Merrill_ had decided to do something stupid.

Being forced to watch Hawke hobble the last mile and a half had done nothing for her temper.

The stubborn fool wouldn't let any of them help him walk, and he ignored all of their petitions to turn back. He was behaving in the same preoccupied manner he had the night his mother died. The difference was that this time his body couldn't keep up with his impulse to push forward.

The only _slight_ bit of aid Hawke would accept were Anders' spells of restoration. He didn't seem to mind if the other mage tried to treat him so long as he didn't have to stop moving.

The healer clipped silently at the Champion's heels with a dogged expression on his face, and fed a near-constant stream of curative magic at the injured man's back.

By the time they reached the start of the Sundermount trail, Hawke was at least standing upright. It was a welcome improvement, but pitiful, considering the strength of healing Anders was usually capable of.

Both mages refused to say a word about how Hawke had been hurt, and Isabela suspected that meant it had to do with the demon he'd brought back with him from the Deep Roads. It was the most sensible explanation for why he and Anders were both acting so subdued.

She could tell Fenris assumed the same thing, because the lyrium-scarred elf had not said a word to any of them the entire journey. He marched with his sword in his hands, glaring at the back of Hawke's neck as if he were deciding the exact angle at which he wanted to sever it.

As a precaution, she too kept her fingertips on the hilts of her own blades-ready to fend off the lyrium-scarred elf if he tried to murder Hawke without a defensible reason.

All in all, it had been a horrible fifteen minutes of daylight, and it only got worse when they came upon the old Dalish campground.

It was not abandoned, like Hawke had implied it would be.

Instead, the site was in an uproar. Elvish hunters were shouting at each other and arming themselves. Children were crying while their parents scrambled around them, hastily cramming belongings into bags and carts.

"What are they all still doing here?" Anders frowned, coming to stand near Hawke's shoulder.

"I don't know," Hawke growled. "Clans never stay in one place this long."

Isabela started to ask if they should cut around another way, but she didn't get the words out before they were spotted. All of the chaos in the moment prior magnified tenfold—except for that now the cries were aimed at them.

"This is _his_ fault!" someone bellowed, pointing at Hawke. "He encouraged her!"

"What are you going to do to stop her!?"

"Kill her!"

"We're all cursed! _She's_ cursed us! Now we're all going to _die_!"

Isabela could only make sense of fragments of the screaming, but the words that did get through were enough. This _was_ related to Merrill, and demons and blood magic. It was also probably connected to that Fade-blasted mirror.

The pirate remembered teasing Merrill about the artifact the first day the elf had brought it home. She should have put her foot through it then, and been done with this whole mess. If she had, maybe a lot of things would have happened differently….

Hawke was deaf to all the shouting, and shouldered his way through the growing mob.

The crowd would have gotten violent at his behavior if the mage were anybody else. But the unnatural glint in his eye was enough to keep them all from getting close enough to actually impede him.

Hawke did halt, however, when the grey-haired Dalish Keeper emerged from a fold in the swarm.

The old woman's face was drawn, and she clutched both hands in front of her breast, cradling something small.

"Where is Merrill?" he asked her, stuck on a single tract in his mind.

The old Keeper frowned at him, and held out the delicate object she was carrying for him to see. "I found this beside my bed this morning…"

Isabela craned her neck around his shoulder, trying to steal a peek at what the elderly elf held. Bitter, she recognized the item to be the carved wooden deer she'd seen Hawke give Merrill as a present way back when.

The man's gaze lingered on the white wood. His expression was grim as the Dalish Keeper challenged him, "I was hoping you could tell me."

...

Merrill made her way down the uneven steps slowly.

The dark cavern had not changed at all from the way she remembered it, still making her skin prickle beneath her clothes.

No fire was lit at the altar that waited for her at the foot of the path, but the great golden figure atop it was somehow illuminated in the darkness.

The idol seemed to produce it own energy; filling the space around it with an alluring sort of glow. She felt drawn to its aura, but she knew the danger of that feeling, and so did not allow her feet to close the distance to the shrine as quickly as they would have liked.

The Veil was thin all throughout the tunnels and tombs of Sundermount; but this forgotten den—right at the mountain's peak—was perhaps the most fragile point in all of Kirkwall. It felt that if she wasn't careful, one misplaced step could send her tumbling directly into her dreams.

As she drew closer to it, the mysterious idol seemed to shine brighter. Static buzzed in the air around her shoulders. Unwonted, her heartbeat began to race, and she paused, taking several deep breaths to keep from being overwhelmed. She'd come this far, and refused to be daunted now.

"You can do this," she whispered, letting the mantra hang in the silence for a moment before moving the last few paces to stand in the statue's light.

"H-Hello?" she mumbled.

She cleared her throat. "Can you hear me? I know you're there."

There was no sound except for the pulse of blood behind her ears, but she could feel the presence around of the Fade around her, and knew she was not alone.

"Answer me," she demanded.

Something like a breath rattled from the direction of the golden statue, and she felt the fine hairs rise on the back of her neck.

" _I had near forgotten the sound of your voice, little elf…_ " came a whispered respond. The dry words rasped through the cavern, quiet as the crunch of leaves underfoot. " _I had not dared to hope you might return to me after all this time. Have you reconsidered my offer?"_

Merrill set her jaw, and tightened her grip on her staff. "Yes," she said. "I will free you; but first you must give me the power to fix the Eluvian, and I want you to tell me how to banish a demon too."

"… _Banishing a demon, you say?"_ the voice responded after a long pause. " _You mean… forcing it back to the Fade?"_

"I mean forcing it out of a human host," she clarified. "And then back to the Fade."

" _Hmm_ …" the voice breathed. " _That is new. Why, I wonder, have_ you _need of such a technique_?"

She gulped. "Th-there's someone I need to save. He made a pact with a spirit; but it's become corrupted. I need to separate them now, before-before it's too late."

" _Hmm…_ "

Merrill waited several endless seconds for the voice to say something more. When it did not, she grew agitated. "Can you help me or not?" she demanded.

" _I can help you_ ," the voice assured her. " _I can certainly help you, little elf. In fact; I would do it for you, if you wished it. Once I am freed."_

Merrill bit the inside of her cheek, fretful about how to respond. The spirit had said nearly the same thing years ago when she'd first found it, and spoken with it about the Eluvian.

She did not doubt that the spirit bound to the idol _had_ the knowledge she needed, but she didn't trust it to aid her. Even if she gave into what it wanted, she'd have no way to hold the spirit to its promise. She had never been skilled at negotiations… and she knew the stakes would always be higher than normal when a spirit was involved. When they had come to this crossroads before, she'd deemed the deal too risky, and determined to find a safer course.

But she'd failed at that, and the longer she waited now, the worse Hawke's condition would become. ...Still, if she pushed too hard for what she wanted, would the spirit reject her entirely? If she lost this option, she really didn't know what she would be able to do to help.

Reaching up, she broke the stillness of the air by slapping her palms against her own cheeks. _Calm down,_ she scolded herself. She forced all the panic out of her mind with a strong exhalation, and re-examined her and the spirit's situation.

The spirit trapped in the idol desired freedom, and needed help from someone of the physical world in order to obtain it. If that someone was not her, how many more years would the spirit need to wait before it encountered someone else atop this lonely peak?

"If I free you first," she said slowly, building her confidence with each statement, "I will have nothing to hold you to your end of the bargain."

She could hear the annoyance in the spirit's voice when it replied, " _You will have my word."_

"That's not enough," she told it. "I mean no disrespect, _ma'ghilan,_ but I have seen spirits break their promises."

"' _Demons' you mean; not Spirits,_ " the voice chided. _"There is a difference."_

"I'd like to believe you," Merrill acknowledged. "But it is hard to know for sure if you are what you say. I have seen demons lie about their nature."

The voice went quiet again, and for a moment she was afraid she'd crossed a line. She was just starting to wonder if she should attempt to apologize when the spirit sighed, " _You are taking advantage of my desperation, little elf. I have no alternative, so I will show you how to do what you have asked… To do so, you will need to join me here."_

"'Here', where?" Merrill withdrew, skeptical at once. "In your prison?"

" _No, little elf,_ " the voice assured her, " _in the Fade. My body may be bound to this vessel, but my cage does not blind my eyes, nor deafen my ears. This prison was built within the memories of the world. For an eternity, I have listened to these long forgotten secrets; and I have learned. If you will not free me first, then you must come to me. It is the only way I can show you what I know."_

The spirit's explanation made sense. It was true that the Fade could make memories whole. It could turn an experience into an eternal livable moment. But a memory like that could could trap an unwitting dreamer just as easily as it could reveal an unknowable truth. She would have to be wary.

"Very well," she decided. "...but how will I reach you? There are no other mages or lyrium here."

" _There is blood,"_ the voice reminded her. " _And with my presence so near, you shouldn't need very much…"_

"Oh."

Merrill took another calming breath. She knew what the spirit meant for her to do.

If this was a mistake, she thought—drawing a small utility blade from its place on her belt—it was now too late for turning back.

In a smooth motion, she dragged the knifepoint across the flesh of her open palm. The steel was honed to the sharpest possible edge, but it still burned as it cut into her. The liquid that pooled behind the razor looked black in the idol's eerie light.

She tried to ignore her growing sense of foreboding, and tucked the blade away. Before she could indulge any other second thoughts, she pressed her torn hand against the chest of the golden statue. The metal was shockingly cold to her touch.

All around, her sense of the physical world began to buckle.

The cave blurred, and she felt like she was falling. Her mind sought unconsciousness, and she succumbed to the whim; hardly even feeling it as her knees hit the cavern floor.

Right before total darkness enveloped her, she could have sworn she heard someone call out her name.


	27. Chapter 27

Someone was humming a disconnected tune.

Merrill didn't recognize the melody as it woke her, and she didn't recognize the scenery that greeted her either, when she opened her eyes.

The forest felt like a place she had been before; but it was most certainly not the place she had come from. This world around her was calm and bright, but her memories of just a moment past did not feel like such.

"Where am I?" she mumbled, sitting up. Her head had been resting against something warm, and when she turned to examine the pillow, she found a familiar face looking back at her in the dappled sunlight. She'd been resting in his lap.

"T-Tamlen?" she balked, her cheeks growing warm. "What am I doing here? Did I fall asleep?"

"You did, ma'falon," her old friend said with a smirk, "but I didn't mind. You can rest a while longer if you're tired."

"I'm fine now," she insisted. Her eyes slipped away from him as she added with a small smile, "B-besides, I'm sure Lyna will return soon. If she sees us like that, she might misunderstand."

Tamlen tilted his head to the side. "What's there to misunderstand? I've already told her how I feel about you."

"About… about me?" Merrill parroted, blanching in surprise. "What in Mythal's name do you mean?"

The man's smile took on a sheepish tint. "Come now, Merrill," he chuckled. "You're going to hurt my feelings."

He leaned forward-bringing the tip of his nose close enough to brush hers- and murmured, "You know very well what I mean."

Merrill was sure that her face must be bright red. She jerked away, and tried to press the heat from her skin. "That's absurd, Tamlen," she scolded, flustered. "And it is rude to tease."

The other elf caught one of her hands and tried to pull it back towards him. "I'm not teasing," he frowned, "and it isn't absurd. It's true. I've always been honest with you. Haven't I?"

"Y-yes," she admitted, removing her hand from his grasp. "Yes, you have. But this is wrong. You told me before that you were in love with Lyna. You said you meant to marry her."

"When did I say that?"

His blue eyes looked genuinely confused, and the longer she gazed at them, the less certain of her words she became. "I-I'm not sure," she said, touching her head. "I can't seem to remember… but I'm pretty sure you did, a long time ago."

"Well, things can change when a long time passes." Tamlen crossed his arms in just the same peevish way that he used to when they were children. "If it's something I said when I was younger, it certainly isn't true anymore. Now, I only have eyes for you."

His words made her a little anxious, and tugged at a knot of uncertainty that was growing in the back of her mind. "Things can change…" she repeated, trying to remember why his statement was incorrect. There was truth to the idea in general, but when he said it…

"It's a lie," she mumbled.

"Please stop that, Merrill," Tamlen begged her. "It's one thing if you don't feel the same way, but it's another matter if you don't even believe the words I'm saying. Am I going to have to prove it to you?"

He caught her face in his warm hands and began to move in close to her again. His gaze was bold, and focused, and the expression reminded her strongly of somebody else.

She pushed him away, feeling dizzy.

"Merrill!" he sounded hurt. "What's the matter? I thought you cared for me too."

"I do," she muttered, clutching her forehead again as she tried to remember something important. "I did... but this is different. This is wrong."

Her words brushed against a memory, and she tried to catch hold of it. The truth was something frightening. Something sad. But it was a part of her that she didn't want to lose.

"I did love you," she repeated, "very much. But… as a friend. And I loved Lyna too. I wanted nothing but happiness for the pair of you, and would have never gotten in the way."

"You didn't 'get in the way'." Tamlen insisted, "Lyna's not angry. I decided—"

"You had decided to propose," Merrill interrupted, her eyes going wide. "I remember; you told me so while we were hunting. Lyna had run ahead, and you told me. You asked me to help arrange a time for the two of you to be alone."

"Stop, Merrill. Please."

"I promised. I said that I would, but then Lyna—!"

Merrill's voice caught in her throat. She looked up at the cherished friend from her childhood and remembered why he could not be having this conversation with her. She remembered why he would never be able to change his mind about proposing, or anything else.

"Then Lyna discovered that cave," she whispered. "And the Eluvian. …And you both died."

Tamlen's face went blank.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her hands balling into fists. "Release me from this enchantment at once!"

"Tch," the man in front of her scoffed. Before her eyes, her friend's pleasant features curled into a wicked grin. "Are you sure that's what you want? I was about to make you ever so happy."

Merrill climbed to her feet. "How dare you," she spat at the demon. "How dare you use my friend's face for these tricks. Begone!"

The demon stood up as well. Its body moved in a languid fashion that made Merrill's heart rate spike. The movement was not similar to how Tamlen had carried himself, but she did recognize the posture, and knew what the demon was doing even before it raised its newly formed golden eye to meet her gaze.

"Is my face the problem?" The demon asked. Its voice was deeper now; gruff and all too familiar. "Would you prefer that I use this one instead?"

"Stop it!" she shouted, unable to look at him. She knew the demon would be emboldened by any inclination of desire she showed. She dared not lift her eyes for fear that it might recognize its new advantage.

Despite her attempted discretion, the demon chuckled. Its laughter sounded strange coming from Hawke's mouth. "I don't think you mean that," it told her. "I think you do like this face better after all. Shall I show you what it looks like up close?"

Hawke's hands reached for her, and she reacted in a panic, shoving a Force Push to drive him away.

Casting the magic without a foci was easier than it should have been, and she remembered with a jolt that she was in the Fade.

She'd come there on purpose. For a reason. Try as she might, she still couldn't remember what that reason was; but she thought it might come to her if she could defeat the demon that was tampering with her mind.

The monster had been knocked several paces backwards by her spell, but it had managed to keep its feet. She was just starting to cast around for her staff when it responded to her attack with one of its own.

Like some sort of thug, it tackled her to the ground. Hawke's shoulder caught her in the gut, and forced the air from her lungs as they both hit the dirt.

Merrill gagged, trying to recover her breath after the unexpected blow. Even winded, she squirmed, fighting to get out from under his weight.

"Stop resisting, Merrill," the demon grunted. "You and I both want the same thing."

It had managed to catch hold of one of her wrists, and its other arm was trying to get a better grip around her waist. She clawed at that arm with her free hand, and kicked as hard as she could—hoping to catch any part of its body with her heel or her knee.

Her flailing managed to buck its hold—and for one glorious moment she thought she was free. But then it caught on to her ankle, and twisted. The action tripped her, and her momentum brought her crashing back to the forest floor. Her head hit some kind of rock, or tree root, and while the whole world was spinning, the demon flipped her onto her back.

It dropped down on top of her again, and then snatched her hands, pinning them to the ground beside her pounding head. Hawke's form was bigger than hers and-even if her brain hadn't been swimming-his body's weight straddling her hips would have made it difficult for her to thrash as she had been.

The demon wearing Hawke's face gazed down at her, its expression smug. It was a look Merrill hadn't seen the real Hawke wear since before the Deep Roads expedition, and it caught her off guard. She thought the stoic man Hawke was now to be handsome, but she had forgotten how debonair he could look with a smile. For a moment, she almost forgot about her horrifying predicament, and was simply infatuated with him.

The demon assuming his form seemed to think it had won.

"That's it, Merrill," it purred. "Just focus on me. I know there's something you're longing for; and it's what I want too. There is no reason to resist me."

"You aren't him," she groaned, closing her eyes, and turning her face away. The words were more for her benefit than the demon's. Saying them out loud helped her to recover some of her wits. She knew she needed to keep fighting, but her head hurt, and she was tired. In her dream-like surroundings, the white vestments and chainmail she donned felt heavier than they ought. The weight of them seemed to be pulling her into the dirt.

"I could be," the demon cooed.

She felt its body shift. The bristle of Hawke's beard brushed against her skin, and sent a thrill down her spine. A sweet sensation that could have only been his lips found an unprotected place on her neck, and she gasped, despite herself.

"Poor little elf," the demon said, sensing the tumult of her emotions. "I can see how hard you've worked. How hard you've tried for his attention. But he doesn't acknowledge it; he doesn't care. The truth is that he doesn't have time for you, and he never will. No matter what you do, he will always be at the beck and call of something bigger. He cannot escape his fate."

It was mortifying that the demon would assume this form after the real Hawke had just scorned her. And it was worse that the monster's words were probably right. Yes, Hawke had seemed preoccupied with her during the qunari siege, but she'd been foolish to think that might mean a titan like him could care for her in any grander sort of way….

"Let that pain go, Merrill," the demon hummed. Hawke's voice was like silk against her throat. "Stay here, and let me show you how it could be. I promise I'll give you all the time in the world."

Shame and frustration bubbled up within her, and fiery tears started to build at the bridge of her nose. She shouldn't be so tempted. Not by a lie. A fake. Even she-even she-should have more self-respect than this.

"Leave me alone," she growled, trying to twist her face out of reach.

"I will never." The demon's lips caressed the line of her jaw. "I love you, Merrill," it murmured into her ear.

She'd never fully dared to hope that she might ever hear those words from Hawke's mouth. When the demon said them, all the feeling drained from her body, and her mind flooded with sudden, unexpected rage.

It wasn't fair that this monster could take her most private dream, and mock her with it's improbability.

It wasn't fair that it could twist an emotion housed within her own heart into something so superficial and cruel.

Maybe it was true that Hawke would never be able to view her in a romantic way, but that wasn't what was most important to her. It wasn't the point. She didn't think she'd come to the Fade to change Hawke's feelings- she'd come to follow through on her own.

Magic flowed to her fingertips. "Get away from me!"

The earth churned around her, and the weight of the demon was abruptly jerked back. She heard the monster gag, and felt the wetness of blood puddle over her clothes. The choking didn't stop, and she opened her eyes hesitantly, not sure if she wanted to see what she'd done.

She'd known it would be gruesome, but still, her chest seized at the sight. Roots of nature magic had burst from the ground underneath them and impaled the demon. She'd meant to kill it instantly, but the creature was still clinging to life, and it had not released Hawke's form.

Just above her, he was gasping and clutching at the thorns in his chest, his beautiful eye wide with pain. She covered her face with both hands to try and keep from being sick.

"W-what have you-done, Merrill?" Hawke coughed, more blood spilling from his lips. "Help m-me…"

Nausea burned in her throat.

She knew it was a demon, but Mythal help her, it looked just like him. The agony on his face and the understanding that she'd caused it was unbearable.

"M-Merrill," it pleaded.

Without warning there was a sound of something shattering.

The elf's eyes popped open in surprise. Overhead, it looked as if a giant fissure had fractured the sky, but the reason for her shock was that the demon's hold on her mind had been broken as well. Suddenly, she was able to recall in perfect clarity what she was supposed to be doing in the Beyond, and what the creature in front of her actually was.

"You said you'd tell me how to fix the Eluvian," she gasped, attempting to lift up onto her elbows. "You promised you'd tell me how to save Hawke!"

The demon continued to wheeze as it searched for her with the Champion's golden gaze. The man's voice was weak as it retorted, "You promised to set me free."

"I would have!" she wailed. She wasn't trained to heal wounds this critical, and she dared not withdraw her magic from the demon's chest, lest it bleed out even faster. "I still will!" she vowed, her hand trembling as she tried to make herself touch the demon's wounds, "I'll help you; just tell me what I need to know!"

The sound of splintering glass echoed again, shattering the mirage completely. All around them, the forest scenery collapsed into clouds of glittering dust.

When the air cleared, Merrill found herself in the unmistakeable landscape of the Fade. A chilling rasp escaped the demon's mouth as its body went limp above her.

Even in death, it did not release its impersonation of Hawke's appearance. It was a final insult, and she knew that for as long as she lived, she'd never forget the feeling of seeing the Champion's lifeless face.

There was total silence for a moment as the misery within her continued to build. The corpse sagging above her was a painful analogy of what she'd just done. She'd bargained with this spirit as a last resort. Without the creature's guidance, how would she ever fix the Eluvian? How would she help Hawke? Her rash reaction to the demon's illusion had basically insured that the real Champion would meet his own demise.

She realized that she was crying, and once she started, she couldn't stop. She lay on the ground, with her hands back over her face, and sobbed.

She'd messed up again, and this time it might actually kill him. If Hawke was never liberated from his demon, it would be entirely her fault.

"Merrill."

A soft touch rested atop the back of her hand, and it made her guilt all the worse.

"Merrill," he repeated, trying to get her to uncover her eyes. "That isn't me."

She heard the sound of branches breaking, and knew that the remains of the dead demon were being wrenched out of the way.

Hands hooked under her arms, and she felt a person position themselves behind her. Gently, they started to pull; easing her out from under the demon, and the tangled roots that had killed it.

She choked down her quaking breaths, and tried to help free herself. It was a bit of a struggle, even with aid, because her limbs felt limp, and she couldn't completely ebb the flow of his tears. She was miserable, and she didn't want to look behind her. Why was the real Hawke here of all places? Why now?

"Merrill," he said her name a third time. She was out from under the demon at that point, but the man's hands lingered on her ribcage-like he was concerned she wouldn't be able to sit up on her own. "That wasn't me," he told her again, "and even if it had been, you were protecting yourself. You've done nothing wrong."

"I know it wasn't you," she groaned, digging the heels of her palms against her eyes.

She felt his grip tighten slightly. "Then why are you crying? All this blood… Are you hurt?"

"No," she muttered, looking down at herself. "I'm not." Huge splatters of the demon's ichor covered her torso, ruining the fine armor she'd never dared to wear. Somehow that seemed fitting to her.

"This isn't mine," she said about the stains as she leaned away from his hands. Her emotions were stabilizing now, and she didn't want him to think that she needed coddling. "I'm just upset. I didn't mean to kill that spirit."

"If you hadn't killed it, it would have killed you," the man rebuked.

She cast a sullen look at the Hawke who was speaking to her now, and then dropped her gaze to the ground. The demonic eye on the left side of his face was glowing so fiercely that she could see the bright yellow light through his leather covering.

The glow made her feel like a fool all over again. How could she have forgotten the acidic aura so quickly? It should have been the first thing she remembered about the real Hawke-not his old smirk, or the fact that he'd denied her advances. If the demon's mirage had tried to imitate this she might have remembered earlier why it was she'd come to talk to it.

"I don't want a lecture," she told him, downcast. "And it's my business anyway. I'm respecting your wishes, and leaving you alone. You don't need to worry about what happens to me."

Hawke started to say something, but then another voice cut him off.

"If the elf is secured, we should not tarry," it said. "You are not in any state to carry out this conversation here."

Merrill flinched. She hadn't even noticed that another person was there with them.

"...Anders?" she wondered, examining the source of the voice. The man had been the one who'd lifted the torso of the dead demon. He let the corpse fall again now that she was out from under it, and returned her gaze.

An other-worldly blue light radiated from behind his eyes. She felt she knew the healer fairly well, but his stance seemed different to her, and his expression was colder than she was used to.

"or… Justice?"

The man ignored her question; turning back to Hawke. "Is her soul intact?"

"Yes," she answered for herself, a little annoyed.

Hawke nodded in agreement.

Justice stared pointedly at him. "Is yours?"

Merrill stole another peek at the Champion as he responded quietly, "For now."

Hawke did seem to be back in control of his spirit's power for the moment, but he looked exhausted again. Hollow-like he had the morning before, when he'd goaded Meredith and Orsino in the square.

The returned weariness in his features deepened her sense of culpability. What was he doing _here_ , when he so obviously needed rest?

Nodding to Hawke's solemn response, Justice told them, "Then I will lead us back."

Anders' eyes closed, and a haze settled over the plains of the Beyond. Merrill started to feel the same sensation of falling that she had when she'd touched the golden idol.

This time though, instead of collapsing into the dirt, it seemed like she sank backwards, into the warmth of Hawke's arms.


End file.
